


A Vagrant Gypsy Life

by bainsidhe



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 92,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bainsidhe/pseuds/bainsidhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being drummed out of the Royal Navy in disgrace, James Norrington is a dissolute drunkard living on Tortuga, whiling away his days with rum and wenches. But when he is given an opportunity to set sail once more on a privateer's vessel, James finds himself embroiled in an adventure that will take him from the bright expanses of the open seas to a dark conspiracy involving an ancient and evil form of black magic, and he will discover that not everything - or everyone - is what it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down and Out in Tortuga

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: So I realize I'm a bit late to the party, but I just watched the Pirates movies for the first time recently (I know, I know, insert comment about living under a rock, etc). I became immediately enamored of the character of James Norrington, and began to wonder what his life might have been like if his exile on Tortuga had continued. And thus this story was born. It takes place some three years after the events in Curse of the Black Pearl, and though I may reference, adopt, or alter events from Dead Man's Chest and At World's End here and there, the story should be considered AU after CotBP. One final note: this story is rated M for a reason, and thus contains very strong language (plenty o' salty sailor swearin'), sex and sexual themes, and some violence. Ye be fair warned! All right, enough chattering from me; our tale awaits!

James Norrington awoke with a muffled groan, his head pounding in time to a staccato tattoo of pain, to find himself ensconced face down in the tits of a rather buxom whore. 

Lifting his head produced a rather intense stab of discomfort, and so, abandoning the effort, he rolled sideways onto his back, and the sudden and unwelcome invasion of bright morning sun shining through the window elicited another drawn-out groan. Rubbing a shaky hand across his face in a futile effort to dull the ache, he squinted his eyes against the light and reached out with his other hand for the bottle that sat on the bedside table, the bottle that contained the cure for his ills and the only surefire remedy for the ungodly riot of agony that marched through his skull. Wrapping a fist around the bottle's neck, he pulled it gratefully to his mouth and took a long pull, the last dregs of the rum washing down his throat with a familiar and much-welcomed fire. As the last of the rum disappeared down his throat, he tossed the bottle carelessly across the room, where it landed with a loud clatter against the far wall.

The clash of the bottle hitting the wall was sufficient to awaken his companion, and the whore – what was her name again? Molly? Maggie? – stirred groggily, lifting her head from the pillow and unfurling in a cat-like stretch, providing him with a rather lovely view of those magnificent tits. She seemed to notice him then, and gave him a lascivious smile as she rolled out of bed.

"Morning, handsome," she purred. "Had us a full night, didn't we? Got your coin's worth I hope." She began to pull on her skirts, but he reached out with a hand to stay her arm, ignoring the acute throb that laced through his head at any sudden movement.

"Wait," he said, his tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth. "No need to run off so soon, is there? Maybe we could have a proper morning greeting." Despite the deleterious effects of last night's overindulgence, he still felt the stiff ache between his legs that so often greeted him first thing in the morning, and it seemed such a shame not to enjoy the comforts of a comely lass in his bed once more before the day began.

"A morning greeting?" she laughed. "You mean for free? Sorry, love, I don't be handing out favours for free." 

"Free?" he frowned. "I gave you coin last night."

"Aye, last night! And so you got what you paid for last night, didn't you? You didn't pay me nothing for today."

"Today?" He sat upright in the bed now, giving his head a small shake to clear out the cobwebs that seemed to have draped themselves around his mind. "Well, it's just now the morning. After last night." He cursed himself, the obviousness of his words sounding stupid even to his inebriated ears. "What I'm saying is that really, this could all be considered part of the same..." He paused, his mind blanking, while he groped for the word he wanted – the damnable light, and the pounding in his head, and everything all together seeming to keep him just on the outside edge of lucidity. 

"The same business transaction," he said triumphantly as his brain alighted upon the words he'd sought.

"Business transaction? Ain't you a real fancy gent with your big words! I hates to break it to you, love, but there ain't but one kind of business transaction I make, and that's you giving me coin if you want to take a tumble. You don't gets to pay me once and be taking my services all week. Now if you got more coin that's another matter." She tugged on her skirts, and he felt his hands tremble with frustration as they traced fitfully along the bedsheets that draped across his lap, barely concealing the evidence of his need. That was the problem; he didn't exactly have more coin. Not right now, anyway. 

"You're a cruel woman, Molly," he said, deciding to change tactics – perhaps he could appeal to her womanly compassion – surely even whores still possessed that in some measure. "To deny a man in his need so. Surely you could at least lend me a hand."

She scowled at him as she finished dressing, but he detected a measure of resigned irritation in her countenance. "My name ain't Molly! It's Margie. And I told you already – "

"Yes, you don't work for free. You did mention that. But Margie," he said smoothly, as though he'd not forgotten her name mere moments earlier, "you are quite lovely, and quite talented, I must say. I would dearly love to enjoy your company again. But you have to understand, coin can be a bit hard to come by when the seas are rough. I regret I have nothing more to give you. But I promise you my penury won't last long, and when I've coin to spend, I would very much like to spend it with you." He paused for dramatic effect. "That is, if you give me a reason to show you particular loyalty. There are many lovely ladies vying for the attentions of sailors with coin to spend on this island." Well, there were many ladies, certainly, though comparably few who could be called 'lovely' with any degree of verisimilitude; though, of course, he was not about to say so to Margie.

He could see the conflict warring across her features and felt a thrill of triumph as she finally relented, heaving a vexed sigh and approaching the bed with a haste that made no effort to conceal her irritation.

"Fine," she snapped, kneeling down beside the bed and gesturing impatiently at him. "Well, come on over, then. And you'd better be quick about it. I ain't going to tug on you for the rest of the morning."

Unable to suppress a licentious grin, he tossed the bedsheet aside and shifted over to the edge of the bed, issuing a low growl as she took him in her hands. He slid his hands through her auburn tresses and sighed contentedly.

"Margie," he said slightly breathlessly as she began to move her hands along him, "this is very nice – wonderful in fact – but your lips are so warm, and inviting, and perhaps – "

She shot him a murderous glare even as her hands did not pause in their rapid ministrations. "Don't push your luck, you scurvy dog. You're getting more than enough as it is."

He decided that she was right, and that it would be best to remain silent as she worked, lest he provoke her ire before she finished the job and left him in a state of even more agonizing want than he had been in to start. But she was indeed talented, and before long, he felt his release shudder through him, and he grunted in satisfaction as he gripped his hands tightly in her hair. The tremors of his pleasure reverberated through him, serving to help blow away the lingering cobwebs of the previous night's drink. Feeling his breathing return to normal as he came back into himself, he looked down to regard her with a satisfied grin, only to find that she'd already risen to her feet and was halfway to the door.

"That was marvellous, Mol – Margie," he said, catching himself (he hoped) in time. Why did he keep wanting to call her Molly? There must be another tavern whore named Molly, he reasoned; perhaps also with red hair? Yes, that would make sense. But Margie seemed unmoved by his gratitude, and turned over her shoulder to toss one last caustic glare his way.

"Save your flattery, you rum-soaked blackguard. Don't think I won't be remembering your promise!" And with that she was out the door, and he was alone in the small, shabby room.

"Well," he murmured to himself as he rose to his feet (steadily, he noted with pride) and began the search for his breeches, discarded somewhere in the recesses of the room late last night in the throes of passion. "I wouldn't exactly say I made a promise. It was really more of an insinuation."

He reflected, as he tugged on his breeches, that, once upon a time, years ago, such behaviour as he'd just engaged in would have been unthinkable, appalling; he had been a man once who had adhered to a strict code of honour and chivalry; a true gentleman of noble bearing and sterling reputation. He angrily dismissed the unwelcome ruminations as he tugged his shirt over his head. He rarely thought about those days anymore, and with every whore he fucked, every bottle of rum he desperately swilled, every act of dubious moral and legal repute he performed, he felt those memories fade just a bit more, until they had become almost a myth, a story of a different man in a different life that wasn't his. That man was, for all intents and purposes, dead. 

And good riddance to him, he thought darkly as he raked a hand through his unkempt, unbound dark hair. That man had been an uptight, naive, and stupid bugger anyway. Feeling the good mood from his sexual release suddenly dissipating, he cast his gaze around the room for the rum, before remembering that he'd drank the last and thrown the empty bottle into the corner. Well, nothing for it but to get another, then. Shrugging on his overcoat and belt, and checking that his pistol and sword were properly in place, he pushed open the bedroom door and made his way out and downstairs to the tavern, hoping that Crusty still trusted him enough to sell him a bottle on credit. 

Sidling up to the tavern’s bar, he slid onto a rickety old stool and waited for Crusty to look up from the tankard he was dutifully polishing with a filthy, sodden rag. Crusty (so named for a rather unfortunate skin condition he claimed he’d contracted in Brazil) at last glanced up from his futile task, and regarded James with a disapproving frown.

“Margie sure came stormin’ down those stairs in quite the huff,” Crusty growled, setting the tankard down none-too-gently on the bar. “Mutterin’ somethin’ about ‘bloody pirates’ and all their ‘empty promises.’ You tryin’ to seduce me workin’ gals away, Norrington?”

“Of course not,” James scoffed, casting his eyes behind Crusty to survey the bottles of liquor that lined the shelf behind the bar. “And I’m not a bloody pirate. I only suggested to her that perhaps I might show her favour in the future if she, er… ” He trailed off, not wanting to admit that he’d cajoled a complimentary favour from the whore, knowing Crusty would not take kindly to the loss of income. 

But he was safe; Crusty, misinterpreting his intent, merely raised his eyebrows in ‘understanding,’ no doubt imagining that James had wooed her with false words of devotion and love. “Ahh, I see,” he said, though clearly he didn’t. Then he burst out into a loud guffaw. “Ah, yer a scoundrel and a rake, Mr. Norrington! I got to admit, I was fair surprised as anyone when you sauntered in here all those years ago still in the tatters o’ yer navy blues. I never thought you’d last a month, to tell the God’s honest truth. But it looks like Tortuga fits you like a glove, it does.”

The mention of his former career, recalling his own earlier musings, served only to exacerbate James’s foul mood, and he remembered why he’d come down to the bar in the first place. 

“Crusty,” he said firmly, drawing himself up straighter, his muscle memory recalling the naval bearing he’d once worn without a second thought. “I need more rum.”

“Aye, do you now?” Crusty responded, his voice thick with sarcasm. “And I suppose you expect this one to be on the house as well?”

“Well, I – ”

“Forget it,” Crusty responded gruffly, ignoring the murderous glare he received from the other man. “That’s a dozen bottles I’ve sold you on credit, now. No more.”

“God damn it, man!” James exploded in desperate frustration, his eyes wavering from Crusty’s iron-clad glare to the enticing row of rum bottles behind. “You know the seas have been stormy and rough for weeks now! There are few ships coming or going and none of them are hiring on hands! And you know I’ll be good for it as soon as I have gold. I give you my word!”

“It ain’t your word I doubt!” Crusty shot back. “But your word ain’t going to keep me in business, is it? I said no and I mean it this time. Come back with coin enough to pay off your debts and maybe I’ll reconsider.” 

With a snarl, James pushed away from the bar, jerking his coat around him as he stalked towards the door. “A fine friend you are, Crusty! A fine one indeed!” he bellowed as he threw the door open with vehemence. Crusty, no stranger to such outbursts from drunkards, merely shrugged and went back to wiping down the bar with the stained, filthy cloth. 

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

James slammed the door to the Mermaid’s Tail tavern and stormed out into the street, wrinkling his nose at the fetid odours that pervaded the air along the main thoroughfare of the small island port. He set off down the street without a clear destination in mind, his mind broiling with a heady stew of unpleasant memories, grim appraisals of his dire financial straits, and desperation borne of his impending deprivation of liquor. 

Ordinarily, things weren’t this bad – he usually had coin enough, taking whatever seafaring jobs presented themselves, and it was enough to pay for his room, his board, his drink, and his whores. Things had been hand-to-mouth for the past year, ever since the ship on which he’d been a reliable mate had been scuppered off the coast of Martinique in order to keep it out of the hands of privateers, and he’d been unable to find another ship that would take him on as a member of the permanent crew. It seemed that the pirates, privateers, and disreputable merchants who made port in Tortuga weren’t overly keen to hire a former commodore of the Royal Navy to man their ship.

He felt his lip curl as he was reminded once again of how far he’d fallen. Curse and damn them all, from the Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy and the King himself, to that damnable blacksmith Turner and the two-faced vixen he’d stolen away, and most of all, that bloody pirate bastard Jack god-damned Sparrow. A pox on them all. He felt his hands twitch with a by-now familiar need. God above, he needed a drink.

Which brought him back to the problem at hand. Crusty was the closest thing he had to a friend in this miserable hellhole, and if even Crusty wouldn’t extend his credit… well, that did leave him in a precarious position. He needed coin, and he needed some now. As if to emphasize the treacherous weather that had landed him in this penniless predicament, the wind gusted fiercely around him, billowing his overcoat out behind him and whipping his untied hair about his face. He shoved a hand to his face to brush the stray strands of dark hair out of his eyes, and, looking up, he realized he’d arrived in front of the Laughing Wench, one of the less-reputable taverns on Tortuga (not that there was any such thing as a reputable tavern on Tortuga, to be truthful).

And there, like divine providence, the solution to his quandary stood, shouting and laughing and weaving drunkenly and carrying on before him – Brawlin’ Bill Hardy and his faithful retinue of lackeys, stumbling uneasily into the door of the Wench. 

Brawlin’ Bill Hardy was a pirate of middling renown, infamous around Tortuga for his endless appetite for liquor and women (which made him not unlike most men who lived on Tortuga, but it was said he could consume enough rum in a night to kill a lesser man and still have enough spirit left to carry on with a wench besides). And such appetites cost coin (as James knew well) – which meant that he owed many men many debts. 

James Norrington, it so happened, was one of those men. He felt the beginnings of a feral grin, and he checked that his blade, his knife, and his pistol were at the ready, just in case this confrontation went less than amicably. Because if Brawlin’ Bill Hardy was swaggering into the Laughing Wench, it meant he had coin to spend. Coin that he owed on a debt – a debt James intended to collect without further delay. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, James threw open the door and pushed his way into the Laughing Wench.


	2. Ebb and Flow

The Laughing Wench was infamous throughout the Caribbean for having the strongest rotgut and the most wanton whores of any sailor's tavern at any port of call; consequently, it tended to attract a certain calibre of clientele for whom commonplace spirits and wenches would no longer suffice. James himself had been to the place only once, for once had been enough; he was not likely to ever forget the misery of the morning after, which he'd spent depositing the contents of his stomach into a chamber pot. Nor was he apt to forget the shocking debauchery of the lass he'd hired for company that night, memories which still had the power to bring a shame-filled flush to his cheeks. He might be a battered wreck of a man, living a life of sin and iniquity in the wretched pisshole that was Tortuga, but he took comfort in knowing that he hadn't hit rock bottom – not as long as he managed to avoid the lure of the Laughing Wench.

Brawlin' Bill Hardy, however, was another story entirely. Already he had a whore in his lap and a mug in his hand, and James could hear his boisterous bellow rising above the general raucous din of the tavern. He and his minions sat at a table near the bar, and James kept to the shadows near the back of the pub as he casually moved closer, waiting for Hardy to finish up his mug and demand another.

"Another round!" Hardy roared, slamming his mug onto the table with emphatic force. His now-free hand dove into the woman's skirts, and she squealed as he pinched her under her petticoats. "A round for all me men! Ain't every day ye get to celebrate a bounty such as this!"

Well, now – it sounded like Brawlin' Bill had amassed quite the haul of treasure on his latest misadventures, if he was inclined to be so generous as to buy a round for his men (even if it was, all things considered, a round of the Laughing Wench's rotgut). A shame he hadn't thought to settle his debts before celebrating his good fortune. Such a pity, James mused as he moved out of the shadows and towards Hardy's table.

"How about a round for me, Hardy?" he said, sliding smoothly into a chair beside Brawlin' Bill, careful to keep all of Hardy's cronies within his sight.

Hardy spluttered out of mouthful of rum and turned to stare balefully at the interloper who'd insinuated himself into the middle of his merrymaking, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as recognition set in.

"Norrington," he growled, and James felt the tension in the air thicken as Hardy's thugs shifted nervously, hands discreetly but perceptibly moving towards their weapons. James was not concerned – he already had his hand resting comfortably against the hilt of his dagger, tucked away covertly in a pocket of his coat.

"Hardy," he replied. "Quite the festivities you have going on over here. What's the occasion?"

Brawlin' Bill had never been the brightest or most perceptive of men, but even he could tell when he was being baited. "Ain't none of yer goddamn business, ye Navy lapdog. Go buy yer own grog."

"It seems to me that you have more than enough to go around," James noted, gesturing at the table full of empty bottles and mugs. "Why, you must be positively flush with gold."

"And what business is it o' yers? We ain't mates and I don't owe ye nothin'! Now be gone with ye." Hardy turned with an exaggerated flair back to the lady astride his lap, who by now regarded him with wary unease.

"Well, that's not exactly true, is it, Hardy? As a matter of fact, you do owe me something," James said. There was steel in his voice, now, and his eyes met the whore's with stern purpose. Understanding that the situation at the table was about to become less than pleasant, she quickly lifted her skirts and slipped out of Hardy's grasp and off his lap, earning a bark of protest from the pirate.

"Where are ye going, ye faithless slag?" he bellowed after the woman, who'd disappeared back into the general hubbub of the tavern. He whirled back to James, eyes blazing in rage. "Ye be scarin' off my company, Navy dog. I don't be appreciatin' that much."

"You owe me twenty pounds sterling," James said without further prelude, any traces of levity or banter in his voice utterly gone. "I intend to collect that debt from you. Now."

His glare was fixed squarely on Hardy, but James sensed the other men tensing out of the corner of his eye, readying for action. He was not worried about them, not as long as he could see them. They were lackeys, tagalongs of the most spineless and mewling sort, and they would do nothing without Brawlin' Bill's say-so. The trick, then, was to remove Hardy as a threat before things got ugly.

The din in the tavern seemed to quiet a little, as the other men littered nearby paused in their revelries to watch the brewing confrontation. James knew how he chose to deal with Hardy now would either gain or lose him a great deal of respect from the rogue's gallery of pirates, thieves, and villains who populated the Laughing Wench, and who would no doubt gossip about any sort of bar fight over mugs of grog back on their ships. It wasn't that he gave a tinker's damn for their esteem, but being respected – and feared – had its advantages in a place like Tortuga.

"Do ye, now." Hardy's voice was low and dangerous. "Well, there's just a slight problem, mate. I – "

But whatever Hardy was going to say was lost to a wailing scream of agony as James, abruptly and without preamble, drew his dagger from within his coat and drove it forcefully through Hardy's prone hand and into the table beneath.

Pandemonium erupted. Hardy's men, dumbfounded and slack-jawed, goggled about in stupefaction; Hardy roared with pain and rage and, staring at his impaled hand for a long, horrified moment, eventually gathered enough of his wits to reach with his other hand for the blade hanging at his side –

But he'd taken too long and did not get very far, his momentum stopped abruptly by the sharp tip of a blade poking into his throat. James had drawn his cutlass with his right hand as soon as he'd delivered the dagger with the other, and he now held Hardy quite helplessly at swordpoint, scraping the blade softly with idle menace against the bearded hollow of the other man's throat.

"There's no problem, mate," James said, pressing the blade ever-so-lightly against Hardy's Adam's apple, just enough to draw forth a small bead of blood. "That is, unless you don't settle your debts with me, and settle them now. In that event, I concede you might well be in a spot of trouble. Mate."

The tavern had gone quiet. All eyes were riveted on the unfolding drama, at the scene of Brawlin' Bill Hardy pinned between a dagger in his hand and a sword at his throat, his usual cronies unsure or unwilling to help. As the seconds ticked by, James increased the pressure on the blade by increments, until the blood droplets beading at Hardy's neck had become a small trickle, and then a steadier ooze. Hardy swallowed thickly, an involuntary reflex borne of nerves, and winced in pain as the movement caused the blade to bite deeper and open the cut wider. Blood dribbled down his throat in a steady stream.

"Come on, Bill, what'll it be? Lose your coin or lose your head? It seems a rather simple choice," James taunted.

He had Hardy dead to rights and he knew it – and Hardy knew it, too.

"All right, all right!" Hardy gasped. "Just promise ye won't cut off me head while I'm reachin' for me coin purse." And so James waited, blade still at the ready and jabbing into Hardy's throat, while the pirate reached his hand down to his waist and, at last, with an incoherent snarl of rage, tossed the purse on the table.

"There's yer god-damned coin, ye back-bitin' rat!" he bellowed. "Now take yer blade off me throat and take yer leave!"

James reached down to the coin purse with his free hand – leaving his sword-hand, and the blade, in place at Hardy's neck – and opened it up and poured the contents on the table. Fourteen coins.

"Hardy, you absolute dullard," he said wearily, pressing the blade tighter and drawing yet more blood. "I always knew you were a liar and a fool, but I never thought you'd be stupid enough to try and cheat a man holding a blade to your throat."

"That's all I got on me, I swear!" Hardy exclaimed. "The rest is – " He abruptly silenced himself, apparently aware that he was about to reveal where he stashed his booty to every blackguard in the tavern.

James, for his part, only raised his brows in amused exasperation. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Well then, I am left with no choice but to collect the remainder from your friends here." One of Hardy's men, a dull-eyed, slack-jawed simpleton everyone knew, fittingly, as Simple Pete, gawped in surprise and dismay.

"Aw, now – that ain't fair!" Pete sputtered. "I don't owe you no money!"

"No, but your captain does," James replied. "And I'm sure he'll be happy to pay you recompense if you save him from getting his throat slit."

Pete continued to gawp like a fish, his flat eyes darting back and forth between James and Hardy, when the latter man, quite tired now of having a cutlass at his neck, snapped, "For God's sake, ye idiot, just give him yer coin!"

And so Simple Pete, after much fumbling, tossed a pile of coins onto the table. Eight more. Hardy, though not a bright man, was brighter than Simple Pete, and he knew that eight and fourteen was more than the twenty originally demanded.

"Hey, that's two more than you asked for!" he protested as James gathered up the coins and stashed them back into Hardy's abandoned purse, which he then slipped into his own coat.

"Consider it a fee for my trouble," James said smoothly. Backing away slowly, he removed the cutlass at last, and Hardy's hand instantly shot up to stanch the flow of blood that streamed steadily down his neck.

"Thank you, gents," James said as he wiped the blood from the tip of his blade on the sleeve of his coat. "Now we are quits. I trust our paths won't cross again." And so he began to back towards the door of the Laughing Wench (for, after all, one did not turn one's back on four angry pirates from whom one has just extorted money), regretting the loss of his dagger, but judging the loss worth the additional time he'd bought in accounting for Hardy to remove it himself. James bowed deeply in mock courtesy, according the men one final insult before pushing open the door to the tavern and exiting to the streets of Tortuga.

Once safely out of the Laughing Wench, he hastened his pace and made for another tavern down the road. He knew, of course, that he hadn't seen the last of Hardy and his men. No man on Tortuga, and no pirate worth his salt, could abide such insult, such public humiliation. And so he knew that they would come for him, tonight, hoping to find him dead drunk and buried deep in a tavern whore – all the easier to slip a blade between his ribs and take back the coin he'd just wrung from them.

He was determined not to make it so simple for them. Not that he would not fight them – he would, he had to, or else he'd always wonder where they were, and when the blade would find him – but he would do so on his own terms. And he knew just the place to do it.

But first, he mused as he jingled the coin that now filled his pockets, he needed a drink.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

James reclined against the back wall of the alley, doing his level best to ignore the stench of stale piss and liquor that permeated the narrow passageway. He took a long swig of his bottle and reminded himself that, although the alley was ferociously rank and ordinarily not the sort of place he'd prefer to tarry, it was necessary for his immediate purposes - between the two ramshackle wooden buildings hemming him in on either side and the stone wall at his back, the only means of approach was the entrance at the street, ensuring that he could not be surrounded or ambushed. If - no, when – Bill Hardy and his motley crew came for him, they'd have to come at him head on.

Despite his nickname, "Brawlin' Bill" wasn't much of a fighter - James had seen him in action before (hell, he'd traded blows with him before), and he knew that his primary strength was his ever-present but puzzlingly loyal band of henchmen, who made sure that every fight Brawlin' Bill started was an unfair one. But the man's fighting form itself was poor - his punches were all strength and no finesse, and his skills with a blade were middling at best. James was a fair tavern brawler; he was brawny enough to hold his own, and three hard years in Tortuga had only improved his skills.

But blades - that was another matter. He was an impeccable swordsman and always had been, even from his midshipman days. The only reason he hadn't challenged Bill Hardy to a duel before was the certainty of a cowardly blade in the back courtesy of one of Hardy's lackeys. But he'd eliminated that advantage tonight, with the alleyway protecting his back and flanks. He'd finally get his fair fight with Brawlin' Bill after all.

Unless, of course, the shitheel coward had decided to cut his losses and turn tail. Having stewed now in the piss-soaked alley for at least two hours, James downed the last of the rum and tossed the bottle with a curse. And it didn't help matters that his own need to piss had grown rather urgent, no doubt a combination of the rum and the long idling wait. He fought the urge as long as he could, certain that as soon as he'd unbuttoned his trousers, Hardy and his cronies would round the corner and charge into the alley, catching him with his cock in his hand and his cutlass in its sheath. But eventually, he could hold out no longer, and, with a growl of annoyance, he swiftly unbuttoned his pants and relieved himself against the wall with a contented sigh.

And, of course, that was the moment when four dark silhouettes appeared at the entrance of the alleyway, with knives and cutlasses drawn. The sheer absurdity of the coincidence drew a bark of laughter from James, and as the first silhouette stepped closer, out of the shadows, he could see Bill Hardy's ugly, pockmarked face.

"Don't suppose you mind letting me finish, lads?" James said, still perversely amused. Fate really did have a deliciously cruel sense of humour.

"Supposin' ye think it's funny to be facing four armed men with naught but yer prick, Commodore?" Bill drawled, imagining that he'd struck a nerve with his reference to James' old naval rank. But his earlier morning musings had already desensitized him to that line of attack, and so James paid him no heed as he tucked himself back into his trousers and buttoned them up.

"Aw, gee, boss, no wonder all the whores likes him best! You get a look at that?" Simple Pete, as daft and tactless as ever, apparently hadn't realized that implying that his captain was a lesser man was perhaps not the wisest thing he could've said. Hardy whipped around to glower furiously at Pete, and the simpleton drew back in fear – if looks could kill, Simple Pete surely would've dropped over dead.

"Shut yer mouth, ye gormless ponce! What do ye know about what the whores like?" Hardy roared. "Besides, I didn't see nothing that impressive."

James felt his eyebrows quirk in amusement as the beginnings of a plan came together. Perhaps it had been for the best that Hardy and his crew had caught him with his pants down, after all.

"Now now, Bill, jealousy doesn't become you. I think Simple Pete might be onto something," he said. "I've heard that some of the ladies have taken to calling you Half-Mast Hardy. It must be quite humiliating."

It wasn't (as far as James knew) true, but that was beside the point, as Brawlin' Bill Hardy's face flushed red as a tomato. "No they don't!" he squawked. Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What would ye know about it anyway? Ye been asking around about me cock, have ye? Fancy a buggering, do ye?"

"There was no need to ask," James said smoothly, every bit the spider who was slowly but surely enticing the fly into his web. "Tortuga is a small island, Hardy. I'm sure we have shared many of the same lasses. The only thing looser than a whore's cunt is her wagging tongue. So trust me, I've heard all about your... inadequacies."

He felt the smallest, briefest pang of guilt for so crudely and dishonestly impugning the discretion of the working women of Tortuga, but that pang was quickly swallowed by a heady satisfaction as he watched the barb hit home. Brawlin' Bill's face contorted into a florid purple mask of rage and bloodlust.

"You bastard son of a whore, I'll have your head!" he bellowed, charging down the alley, cutlass raised high over his head. Seeming momentarily thrown by their boss's wild fury, the three henchmen hesitated for a moment before charging after Bill with raucous battle cries.

The alley he'd chosen was too narrow to admit more than one man at a time, and in their ill-formed and unplanned rage, the four pirates swept right into the trap James had laid. Brawlin' Bill was first, and he lunged gracelessly forward with his blade. James effortlessly parried the blow, knocking Hardy's sword out of hand and using the momentum to skewer the first henchman, who'd rushed past his captain and right into James's oncoming cutlass. He jerked the blade from the man's guts and cut down the third man, who had also come rushing headlong into the death trap.

It was Simple Pete, strangely enough, the dimmest of them all, who had finally realized that to continue his forward charge was suicide; accordingly, he scrabbled to a halt before the bodies of his comrades, and stood there, gaping and frozen in panic, until James took pity on him and smacked him hard in the head with the flat broadside of his sword. Pete crumpled to the ground, and all that was left was Brawlin' Bill, who'd picked up his sword from where it had fallen senseless from his hands.

"Just us now, Norrington," Hardy grated, readying his cutlass for another lunge. "I'll run ye through, and when yer dead I'll cut off yer balls and use 'em to make me a new coinpurse!"

"No," James said coolly, parrying again Hardy's wild thrust, and, bringing his own blade up and around, he cleaved the man from thigh to shoulder. "You won't." Hardy fell heavily to the ground, his face a mask of shock and horror as he looked to the ruinous, fatal wound that nearly hewed him in two.

James leaned down before the dying man, using the tail of Hardy's coat to wipe the blood from his blade and noting the extent of the wound and its trajectory across Hardy's body.

"Well, it looks like you're Half-Mast Hardy now, after all," he said, and the fading light in Hardy's eyes ignited in one final murderous glare before extinguishing forever.

Kneeling down before the carnage, James surveyed his handiwork. These weren't the first men he'd killed on Tortuga, and he very much doubted they'd be the last, but it had been nothing, to cut down these pirates, and he wondered when he'd stopped feeling the grim gravity that had always – should have always – accompanied taking another man's life.

Shaking away the melancholy, he brought himself back to the present, and realized that, in death, Brawlin' Bill and his minions might be much more generous than they'd been inclined to be in life. Rifling through Hardy's pockets, James grinned in triumph as he found Hardy's spare coin purse, the one he'd claimed he didn't have on him, tucked away in a secret pouch on his belt. An investigation of the other two corpses revealed two similar purses each, and James was more than happy to relieve them of their burden. What use had dead men for coin?

He hesitated a moment longer before Simple Pete. Poor, stupid, gawping Simple Pete, whose only real crime had been to fall in with a captain who'd crossed James Norrington, a crime for which James hadn't felt compelled to take his life. And yet, he felt no such compunctions about taking Pete's coin, and so he did – after all, Pete had just attacked him in an alley (sort of). Besides, if he didn't take it now, some vagrant would be along shortly to relieve Simple Pete of any remaining valuables. Better it fall into his hands now. Pete would be penniless when he awoke, but at least he'd awaken. That was enough mercy for one day on Tortuga.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

And so now it was James celebrating his good fortunes in a Tortuga tavern with a bottle in one hand and a wench in the other, and he reflected on the vagaries of fate, that ficklest bitch of them all. Only this morning he'd been penniless, a wretch, pleading for a favour from an ill-tempered whore; and now he sat with a bottle of fine spirits and surely one of the loveliest lasses on the whole island readily snuggling into the crook of his arm. And only this morning Bill Hardy had swaggered into the Laughing Wench, flush with gold and eager to spend it, and now he lay dead in an alley, a feast for the rats. Such was the ebb and flow of life, and now that the tide had come back in, James was determined to enjoy it to the lees.

"Handsome thing, aren't you," the lass cooed, tangling a hand through his dishevelled hair while the other began to caress him across the chest and shoulders. He'd been smitten by such flatteries long ago, when he was new to Tortuga, until he'd realized that the compliments weren't special or unique to him. Even so, he could tell that the women considered him finer looking than the other men to whom they sold their wares (which, admittedly, wasn't saying much on Tortuga), and so he was usually able to catch the eye of the prettiest girl in the establishment. Tonight had been no exception.

"I'm afraid I pale in comparison to the beauty in my arms," he said. The banter was old and routine by now; the recycled bromides of affection and attraction, the pretence of flirtation and romance quickly segueing into more bawdy and lewd rejoinders as the night went on and the liquor set in, before the parties retired to the task that they'd agreed upon before any words had been exchanged at all. It was an old familiar dance whose steps he knew by heart. And so he felt no hesitation or shame when he reached for the laces of her bodice and began, gently but insistently, to pull them down.

"Aren't you the eager one, handsome?" she gasped in faux offence for her long-gone chastity as his hand slid under the laces. Another move, another step in the age-old dance, and he barely registered her words as he took another pull on the bottle before leaning in to press his lips against the soft skin, his mouth moving lower as his fingers and hands pulled down ever more of her bodice –

"James Norrington? Oh my God, James? Is that you?"

A voice from another world – another life, that man's life – came crashing through his senses, and all thoughts of the lass and her creamy décolletage were wiped away in an instant. He pulled back and searched for the ghost, the damnable accursed ghost whose voice had spoken to him, who had somehow, after all these years, found him here, in his own private hell.

And there she was, just as beautiful as ever, God damn her to hell. The whore in his lap was entirely forgotten.

"Elizabeth Swann? What the hell are you doing here?"


	3. Mandolin

He stared at her in stunned disbelief. What was she doing here? She belonged to his old life – that other man's life – which meant that she certainly had no place on Tortuga. He'd come here, all those years ago, for precisely that reason – so he could be as far rid of any reminders of what he'd lost as possible. And yet here she stood before him, the most excruciating reminder of all. His disbelief was replaced, quickly and readily, by anger.

But he'd asked her a question, after all, and so she answered. "I'm… I'm here on personal business," she said, and he felt his ire percolate deeper at her evasive answer. But once again, she spoke before he had the chance.

"What on earth are you doing here? Besides… ah… taking your pleasure, that is?" Her pointed reference to the whore, who was by now regarding James with an exasperated look (no doubt believing that Elizabeth was his wife, having caught him in flagrante), broke through his trance, and he rose angrily to his feet.

"And since when have you given a good goddamn about my pleasure?" he shot back, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the whore, shaking her head in disgust, had abandoned his side to try her fortunes with another tavern patron. "Don't you dare presume to judge me, Miss Swann."

Taken aback by his tone, Elizabeth's eyes flashed in indignation. "I wasn't – oh, forget it! I just… I can't imagine seeing you here, in a place like this," she finished in a quieter tone.

"I could say the same for you. And you never did answer my question," he drawled, taking a swig of the bottle – God, he'd need another of these before the night was through, he could tell already. Wasn't he supposed to be celebrating?

"I told you, it's personal."

"Personal." He regarded her, truly regarded her, for the first time since she'd appeared rather magically before him just moments ago. She was dressed, he noticed now, oddly, in a man's shirt and coat and breeches, and her hair tied up in a queue and hidden under a hat. So she didn't wish for anyone to know she was a woman. Certainly not an unwise choice on Tortuga, but it implied –

"Are you alone, Miss Swann? Tortuga is no place for a solitary woman." He cast his eyes around the tavern; none of the other men seemed to be paying any heed to their conversation.

"I can manage just fine on my own, thank you very much," she said primly, placing a hand at her hip, where James could see a sword resting beneath the hem of her overcoat. He could not suppress a smirk – he'd had no idea how these past three years had treated her, but he was reasonably sure that, regardless of her bravado, her swordsmanship skills were not sufficient to hold off a band of heated, lusty pirates should the need arise.

He told himself, later, that it was chivalry (what little of it he still possessed) that inspired him to take her arm and escort her somewhere more private, out of the ruckus of the crowded tavern and back to a small table in the corner of the quieter Mermaid's Tail. He told himself that it had nothing to do with the fact that his rented room was a mere two score of steps from the downstairs tavern. But then again, he told himself many things these days, most of them untrue.

"Crusty," he said cheerfully, swaggering up to the bar and slapping down a pile of coins. "I told you I was good for it, didn't I? And now how about a drink each for me and the lady?"

Crusty set down the mug he was polishing (James idly wondered if it was the same mug he'd been polishing this morning) and, giving James a skeptical glance, scooped the coins into the meaty palm of his hand.

"That's a lady?"

"Just get us some rum, Crusty."

Crusty dropped the coins in his pouch and turned to the wall of bottles behind the bar. "Suppose I shouldn't be askin' how you came into coin all of a sudden?" he said, selecting two bottles and setting them on the bar in front of James, who snatched them up gratefully.

"I thought the cardinal rule of Tortuga was to never ask how a man came into coin?" James retorted, lifting one of the bottles in a mock salute as he returned to the table in the corner to join Elizabeth. Crusty, ever unfazed, merely shook his head and resumed polishing the hopelessly filthy mug.

"Oh, Mr. Norrington, I don't – I don't think a whole bottle of this is a good idea," Elizabeth said hesitantly when he placed her bottle in front of her. Taking a long pull on his own, he regarded her with a bemused raise of his eyebrows.

"'Mr. Norrington'? What happened to 'James'?" he said, unable to keep the sharp edge from his mirthful tone.

"Fine, James," she replied crossly. "I don't think I should drink a whole bottle of rum. What are we doing here, anyway?"

"We're talking," he said simply. "And drink up. You could stand to loosen up a bit." He grinned around the bottle as he took another drink, watching the indignation play across her face at his last remark. Reluctantly, she took a small sip, which she bravely managed to swallow without incident, though she made a horrid face as the liquor coursed down her throat.

"Oh, it's not that bad," James chided. "You want some truly vile stuff, you should go to the Laughing Wench. Their rum is the Devil's own creation." He took another long pull from his own bottle before setting it down on the table and leaning in, his gaze meeting hers intently. "So, are you going to tell me what 'personal' business brings you to the arsehole of the world?"

She frowned at him. "When did you become so vulgar, Mr. Norring – James? Drinking rum from a bottle, swearing in front of a lady? Honestly, you've changed."

He regarded her with a wild incredulity before barking out a mirthless laugh and taking a swig from his bottle. "Only realizing that now, are you?" he taunted. "Tell me, what was your first clue? The rum? The whore? The fact that I'm exiled on this bleeding shithole of an island? Tell me how much I've changed from the man who was so dreadfully dull you just could not bear the thought of marrying him."

She recoiled as if slapped. "I never – James, I – I never thought – " she spluttered, and he felt his ire mounting, fuelled by the rum, her stammering incoherence, and his own traitorous thoughts.

"Do not lie to me," he grated. "I saw the way you looked at me all those years ago. As if you'd rather run to the ends of the earth and live in rags than tolerate another moment of my presence." A vicious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, it looks as though you got your wish. So tell me, Miss Swann. How is life as a pirate? Is it everything you'd dreamed of and more? The adventure, the excitement? The romance?"

His last words were pointed, and she flushed hotly under his withering glare. "You wanted to know why I'm here?" she spat. "Fine. I'm looking for Will."

His brows shot up nearly to his hairline in surprise. "Mr. Turner? You mean to say you've lost him?"

"I haven't lost him!" she shrilled. "It's just that – he was looking for something – something to do with his father, he said, and he said it might take some time, but it's been nearly a year, and I just –"

He knew, at that moment, that he should feel pity for her. A woman, alone, searching for the man she loved, who might well be dead. It was very tragic, really.

"A year? My dear," he said mockingly, "unless he traveled to the South China Sea in search of… whatever it is he's looking for… I cannot imagine his voyage could have taken so long. Perhaps you are holding on to false hope."

It was cruel, he knew. Once, that would have mattered to him. But the longer he looked at her, the more he felt the ire within him twisting and turning, a savage beast feeding on his resentment of the memories she stirred.

"He's not dead!" she cried out, tears springing to her eyes. "How could you say such a thing?"

"I said no such thing," he replied. "Perhaps he lives. But perhaps he has decided to pursue… other shores, if you will."

When she slapped him, he welcomed the blow, rejoicing that he'd cajoled such a rise out of her.

"You bastard!" she hissed. "How dare you?"

"How dare I, indeed," he said indifferently, taking a long, leisurely pull on his bottle, resolutely ignoring the stinging of his cheek. "But the fact remains that you seem to have misplaced your – is he your fiancé, still? Or have you married him yet? No matter, you seem to have misplaced your lover," he said this last word with a curl of his lip, "and now you have journeyed, all alone, to the most godforsaken place known to man in search of him. So tell me, Miss Swann," he said, his voice low, "what this says about Mr. Turner's devotion to you?"

"Don't you dare question Will's love for me! Why are you being so cruel?" Her eyes, moist with unshed tears, regarded him as she would a stranger. Maybe he was.

"I prefer the term 'brutally honest,'" he said, taking another drink. "What was your plan, if I may ask? Did you think you would just meander from tavern to tavern, hoping you'd stumble across Mr. Turner along the way? Perhaps discover him in a similar position as you discovered me?" He was being cruel now, deliberately, and he couldn't consciously say why.

Her hand lashed out again to slap his face, but as it did so he reached up and snagged her wrist in an iron grip, pulling her roughly towards him until her face was inches from his. Her lips were red and inviting and he longed to close the distance between them and taste her.

"Go to hell," she seethed, eyes blazing. "What happened to you, James?"

He pulled back abruptly, releasing her wrist. "Miss Swann, the world is cruel," he said. "The sooner you learn that, the sooner you'll let go of your childish fantasies."

"Childish fantasies?" she repeated. "Do you mean love?" She fixed her gaze on his, as if trying to see into him, see the man he used to be somewhere inside. "You loved me once, you know."

"I was a fool once," he said coldly. "I won't make the same mistake again."

She shook her head firmly. "No, I don't believe that," she said, and he cocked a curious eyebrow at her abrupt change in tone. "You were always a good man, James. I think you still are. Whatever happened to you, whatever caused you this much pain, I'm sorry."

The savage beast inside him, the howling creature that gorged on a steady diet of hatred and bile, at last broke free. The dam burst open, three years of buried resentments and repressed animosities spilling out of him in a flood.

"You know exactly what happened to me!" He bit out each word as though spitting something distasteful from his mouth. "Or have you forgotten how you used and manipulated me, promising your affections in return for my assistance – my aid in rescuing the man you truly loved? How you led me, blind and unaware of the horrors in store, into an ambush? How you neglected to share with me the rather pertinent detail of the curse that rendered the pirates immortal? Good men died that day, Miss Swann! Men under my command, men for whom I was responsible, dead because I could not deny my fiancée," and it was this word he imbued with the most bitterness of all, "her pleas for help!"

She stared at him, wide-eyed, but he pressed on relentlessly. "And I shall not soon forget your gratitude, oh no. Humiliating me in front of the entire town, absconding with pirates – pirates! – yet still, I felt moved by your appeals for mercy, and so I set them free! I abandoned my duty, I forgot myself, forgot my place, and I lost everything. I lost my ship. I lost my crew. I lost my career and I lost my life, all because of you, and you dare to offer me your sympathy?" His voice had steadily risen with each word so that now he was fair shouting, and he leaned in, pressing his face close to hers, and yet again he felt the overwhelming urge to taste those sweet lips, to seize and crush them between his own.

"So yes, my words were cruel, I admit. I have treated you as you have treated me. And I will welcome your hatred in return." His voice was quiet once more, thrumming with a dangerous heat. "I will welcome your contempt. But I will never welcome your pity."

She had remained silent throughout his tirade, taking the hurricane-force strength of his rage full-on and without flinching, and he grudgingly admitted that he respected her for it. The beast within him was not sated; it still howled in rage, howled for vengeance, howled for James to stop waiting and just take her now, press her against him, make her to feel all that he'd felt in these last miserable years. But he held it at bay, though he did not retreat from the proximity he'd closed with her.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet but strong. "James… whether or not you believe me, whether or not you want to hear me speak the words, please know that I truly am sorry. I never meant to hurt you or betray you, not for a moment. That was never my intention."

There was a sincerity to her words, and if so much hadn't happened, it might have been enough. She moved a hand slowly, tremulously, towards his face, waiting for his inevitable rebuff; when it did not come, she placed her palm gently on his cheek, where she'd slapped him earlier. His breath hitched in his throat as she traced a delicate path down the line of his stubbly jaw with her fingers, and he lifted his hand and placed it atop hers, his callused fingertips stroking patterns along the back of her hand. Her tongue flitted out unconsciously, to wet her lips, and he felt a too-familiar stirring in his blood, his longing to rake his teeth across her soft mouth growing more and more unbearable.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, judging it time to abandon formality. "Are you aware of the power you have? Do you have any idea what you can do? You pluck at the strings of men's hearts like a mandolin, and in your wake only the echo remains." And finally the longing grew too great, and he leaned in and kissed her.

He'd imagined this moment so many times, in his other life; what it would be like to really and truly kiss Elizabeth Swann, to move his lips sinuously against hers, to flick his tongue against her mouth until she admitted him inside, to explore the depths of her and taste all her secrets. He felt none of the light, soaring happiness he once imagined he would at the occasion; the well was too poisoned for that now. But as she responded to the kiss and opened her mouth to his plundering tongue, he wondered if perhaps the bitter taste of regret wasn't just as delectable.

He pulled her over to him and onto his lap as the kiss deepened, his hands reaching up to tangle in her hair before remembering that it was confined and hidden away under the ridiculous man's hat she wore. Her clothes were maddening, and his own were feeling increasingly constricting, and he was dimly aware of Crusty at the bar, still polishing away and studiously ignoring the bawdy carrying-on in the corner. James had few compunctions about engaging in lusty teasing with whores in the view of others, but with Elizabeth, it felt wrong somehow, vulgar. And so he broke the kiss and moved his mouth across her jaw to tease at the shell of her ear.

"Come," he whispered, lifting her off his lap as he stood. "Not here."

"James, I…" she whispered, pressed against his chest. He could see the indecision in her eyes; her desire was plain in her swollen lips and smouldering gaze and hooded eyes, but there was something else too – guilt, though whether for him or for Will Turner he could not say.

But whatever fleeting shame she might have been feeling passed her by, because she seized his arms in her grip and leaned in close, her body stretched out against his, and pressed her lips to his neck, and he was undone. With a growl, he crushed her to him, half-leading and half-pulling her to the narrow stairs at the far end of the bar, up towards his room.

There was another recurring fantasy from his other life, which had been the natural extension of the first – imagining what it would be like to at last take Elizabeth to his bed. Would she be bold and passionate? Shy and nervous? Would she be vocal in her pleasure, begging him for more? Would she find him appealing, attractive, desirable as a mate? Such fantasies had helped him endure long, hard months at sea in arduous conditions until he could return to Port Royal and perhaps, one day, discover the answer to his perpetual musings.

The man he used to be certainly never would've imagined that he would discover her like this, sprawled out on a small rickety bed in a cramped, dingy room above a tavern on Tortuga. It was strange undressing her in her men's clothing, but simple – a shirt and breeches were far less complicated than dresses and stays and all that nonsense, after all. His own clothing soon joined the pile of discarded garments, and as he climbed atop the bed and captured her lips in a ravenous kiss, he set about exploring her undiscovered country with rough, quick hands.

All her reservations seemed to be, for the moment at least, forgotten, and she gasped and writhed against him, her hands frenzied in their own exploration of him, and he was reminded of what it was to be touched by a woman who did not have to be paid for her affections. He noted her hiss of pleasure as he captured the peak of her right breast in his mouth and wondered if Will Turner had ever been able to draw such reactions from her. Thinking of Turner brought him a perverse enjoyment, and he smiled against the soft flesh of her belly as he kissed his way down the plane of her body, eager to claim yet more territory away from the damnable blacksmith.

Perhaps even more than he bargained for: he realized, when he curled his fingers into her heat and elicited a sharp gasp of surprise, that she was still a virgin. Resting his face against the inside of her thigh, he panted raggedly, his desire aching and keen, but unsure how to proceed. He didn't think he'd ever bedded a virgin – certainly, there were none on Tortuga, and even before, the women who allowed themselves to be seduced by sailors were usually not blushing innocents. He began to laugh, his shoulders shaking quietly with mirth, at the absurdity of it all. He'd imagined this moment many times before, certainly, but it had always been romantic and sweet, taking place on a soft luxurious bed covered in rose petals and perfume, not in his squalid tiny tavern room in Tortuga.

"James?" Her voice was hesitant above him. "Is… something wrong?"

He could not resist placing a soft kiss to her center, which elicited a squeal of pleasure from her. "You've never done this before," he stated matter-of-factly.

"No," she admitted after a pause. "Will and I – we're not married – well, we were meant to be, several times, but things just kept interrupting, and we always thought we'd wait, but then he left to go look for whatever it is he's looking for and I've been waiting still – " She fell abruptly silent, perhaps fearing she was babbling (which, in truth, she was).

"More the fool Turner, then," James said smoothly, drawing himself up the length of her body until he was level with her gaze. Leaning over her, resting on his forearms, he nuzzled the side of her neck.

"I want you to," she blurted out suddenly, and he stilled at once.

"I want you to," she repeated, more calmly this time, and he rose again to regard her. Her expression was firm, her eyes locked on his. He saw no love there, but nor did he see any doubt; and there was desire in spades, and that was enough for him.

He was gentle, or as gentle as he could be considering how long he'd been aching to slip inside her heat. But she did not cry out, and only squeezed his shoulders in a vise grip for several moments before she relaxed and thrashed her hips impatiently, urging him to move, and then he needed no further encouragement. It was not the slow, sweet lovemaking he'd always imagined with her, but then again, that future had died when she'd abandoned him and disappeared with her pirate blacksmith. Now, all they had was this – rough, desperate, and frantic, driven by a complicated melange of desire, bitterness, regret, and spite. The beast in him howled in triumph as he thrust wildly into her, and the man he'd become felt a vicious surge of glee as he took from her what Will Turner never could.

She came to her release with a series of shuddering gasps and sighs, and he followed shortly after, spilling his seed deep inside her with a growl. Collapsing next to her on the bed, James slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. It was perhaps too intimate a gesture given the nature of their relationship, but he was thoroughly enjoying having a woman in his bed who had chosen to be there for reasons that had nothing to do with coin.

She snuggled up against him as she fell into a soft slumber, but he lay awake, savouring the closest thing to solace he'd felt in a very long time. He knew the spell would be broken tomorrow; she would leave, off to find Will Turner, and he would return to his rudderless, purposeless existence, drowning his sorrows in rum. But at that moment, all the rest of it could be forgotten; if only for one night.


	4. Rum, Regrets, and the Lash

James stood in front of the room's small window clad only in his breeches, taking a drink from last night's neglected bottle as he regarded the bright Caribbean morning. The sunlight was far less offensive to his sensibilities this morning than it had been the day before; but then again, he hadn't imbibed nearly as much rum yesterday, having found himself engaged in other, more pleasurable, pursuits.

He turned to spare a glance back at the bed, where Elizabeth still slumbered, her naked body half-hidden under the sheets. She'd stirred up a hornet's nest of confusion within him; memories he'd tried very hard to bury had risen to the fore of his mind, and he resented their intrusion – resented her intrusion. Not that last night, all things considered, hadn't been worth it. He smiled wolfishly at the memory of her gasping out his name as he took her, and could not help feel a thrill of victory – after the way she'd so publicly rejected him in favour of Will Turner, it was he who'd plucked her first, after all. Yes, he decided; that was worth enduring the unpleasant memories of his spectacular fall from grace.

She stirred restlessly, her body shifting beneath the covers, the sheets falling aside to reveal yet more of her to his lustful gaze, and he felt his cock twitch in response. She would likely regret falling into his bed so eagerly, but he hoped her regrets were not so severe that she would be averse to an encore performance before they went their inevitable separate ways. Once it might have been incongruous to see the governor's daughter, raised to be a proper lady, in such a state of dishabille, and he, raised to be a proper gentleman, standing before her leering with a bottle in his hand; but fate had taken them both far from their intended paths, and James had learned long ago that to question its vagaries was a fool's enterprise of the utmost futility.

She shifted again under the sheets, this time her movement accompanied by the low, drawn-out groan of the newly awakening, and he watched her lift her head from the pillow, her eyes blinking groggily. She turned over to the other side, where he had lain, and, finding it empty, twisted her head around in puzzlement until she found him across the room. He watched the play of emotions dance across her face, from confusion to recognition to a startled, full awareness.

"Good morning," he said casually, smiling down at her as he took a drink.

"Oh my God," she murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear. Her face suffused with a crimson flush as full realization of the previous night's activities crashed down on her with a shattering finality. "Oh my God. No. This didn't happen."

"Oh, but it did," he drawled, taking another pull from the bottle. "And it was quite lovely, by the way."

"No. No! I am betrothed – I am to marry Will! This cannot happen!" She sat upright in agitation, swinging her legs around to get out of the bed – and at once became fully aware of her nudity. She let out a mortified yelp and seized the covers around her, pulling them up to her chin.

"A bit too late for modesty, my dear," he chided, scratching lazily at his bare chest. "I saw it all last night. And then some."

"Ugh!" she exclaimed, regarding him with an incensed glare. "Since when did you become such a… such a… boorish lout?"

"I thought we'd covered that ground quite sufficiently yesterday evening," he replied without pause before swallowing another mouthful.

"Despicable man," she grated, glaring at him balefully and still clutching the bedsheets tightly around herself. Wrapping one hand around her chest to hold the sheets close, she gestured with the other towards the pile of discarded clothing in the corner of the room.

"Bring me my clothes, and leave the room while I dress. I will be on my way and you shan't see me again," she commanded.

He stared at her incredulously for a long moment before bursting into loud gales of laughter.

"Bring you your clothes?" he mocked. "You have the audacity to order me about in my own room? And here I'd thought that perhaps all these years of living the vagabond pirate life had cured you of your suffocating high-society manners. I am curious," he said, his amusement still running high, "whether you command your pirate comrades so imperiously and with such a spoilt air of refinement? Pray tell me how well that goes over on the Black Pearl or whatever accursed pirate barge you sail with these days."

"I can assure you that my 'pirate comrades' would have more respect for my chastity and would not leer at me like the Tortuga filth you've become!" she retorted hotly, pulling the bedsheets tighter. He could not help but smirk at her romantic but assuredly false representation of virtuous pirates.

"Your chastity?" He laughed. "Darling, you lost all claim to that when you begged me to take your maidenhead in the throes of passion last night. It is hardly fair that you should blame me for obliging your wishes."

"I did not beg!" she cried furiously, her face flushing in anger and shame – for they both knew she was lying.

"No?" he said curiously, draining the dregs of his bottle and tossing it heedlessly into the corner. He took a step closer to the bed, admiring a fleeting glimpse of her pale legs as she shifted again, straightening up to meet his gaze. "I seem to recall differently. I seem to recall –"

"You plied me with rum! I was not myself!"

"Plied you with rum?" He narrowed his eyes at her, feeling the stirrings of the beast inside him awakening once more. "I think not. One sip from one bottle is not sufficient to inebriate even the most delicate of constitutions." He took another step forward, close enough to reach out and touch her – and he found himself sore tempted, to reach out and run his hands through her unruly waves of golden brown hair.

"I'm afraid you must face the truth, Elizabeth," he said. "You came to me willingly." He paused. "No – you came to me eagerly."

With a flash she was on her feet, still clinging tightly to the sheets she'd wrapped around herself.

"You are a complete and utter scoundrel," she snapped, eyes glinting ferociously.

"Mmm," he considered. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"And a drunken cur!"

"Most assuredly so," he agreed.

"You've probably whored your way through every brothel on Tortuga by now! You're no better than a – "

"Pirate?" he finished dangerously, sliding his hands around her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin sheets beneath his palms. He leaned in close, so close, until his lips brushed up against her ear. "But I thought you liked pirates, Miss Swann. Found them… irresistible."

He felt her body tense against him, heard her hiss in a sharp intake of breath, felt her free hand slide between them, traversing the plane of his chest and tangling in the dusting of short hair there.

"Damn you, James," she whispered, her breath hot against his neck. He pulled back to regard her, and found once more in her eyes that intoxicating, fearless desire that had so seduced him the night before. "How is it you're able to do this to me?"

A half-smirk found its way to his face, tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he leaned in close again, grazing his lips against hers.

"I think we both know you're really quite partial to scoundrels, aren't you… Elizabeth?" he murmured against her mouth.

And then she was kissing him fiercely and with great violence, wrapping her arms around his neck and tangling her hands through his hair, the bedsheets dropping to the floor, forgotten in her sudden lust and hunger. It was not a tender kiss; teeth and tongues and lips crashed together and duelled for supremacy, a duel that ended abruptly when she took his lower lip in her teeth and bit down, breaking the skin and drawing blood.

With a feral snarl, he seized her hips in his hands and shoved her up against the wall beside the bed, lifting her thighs until she wrapped her legs around his waist and pinning her there with his body. He tangled one hand in her loose hair and pulled, eliciting a squeal from her as her head jerked up, revealing her creamy neck to his plundering mouth; with the other, he scrabbled at his trousers, unbuttoning them at last and shoving them indecorously down and out of the way. He entered her unceremoniously and without pretence, shuddering at the exquisite feel of being inside her again – God, but she felt so warm, so tight, so god-damned good, better than any Tortuga whore he'd ever had. Better than any woman he'd ever had, to tell the truth. To think she could've – should've – been his, not Turner's.

The thought of Turner sent him into a possessive frenzy, and he bucked against her with unrestrained vigour, unconcerned this time with any notions of gentleness or care. Her arms had twined tight around him, her body stiff and arching against him as she gasped out her pleasure with ragged, rasping pleas, begging him to take her harder, faster; begging him for more. He welcomed her vocal interjections; he knew that Turner had never seen her like this, so wild and abandoned, so lost in the throes of passion and lust that she forgot herself. When her release came, she screamed and dug her nails painfully into his shoulders, gasping out his name in a hoarse, low moan; when his followed shortly after, he thrust into her hard, nailing her to the wall, emptying himself inside her with a ragged groan. Unable to support both his weight and hers on trembling legs, he slid heavily to the floor, dragging her down with him, and there they lay curled in a tangle of limbs, panting, heaving, sweating, and sated.

Some time later – he couldn't possibly have said if it was minutes or hours – she reached over to him and ran her fingers delicately across his chest, tracing a pattern along an old long-forgotten scar that traversed his right pectoral from his shoulder to his breastbone.

"I'd never imagined you had this many scars," she said quietly, trailing her finger down to touch another, longer one that ran a jagged course along his left side and down his ribs.

"A sailor's life is not an easy one," he replied simply, revelling in the tingling sensation her roaming fingers left in their wake. "No man who takes to the sea remains untouched by it for long. Cutlass blades, musket balls, ropes, the lash – all leave their mark."

She continued her idle exploration of him, fingers caressing an old bullet wound in his shoulder; then down his arm, marked by a glancing blow from a pirate's blade long ago; to his hands, where a smattering of thin white scars across his knuckles told tales of brawls lost and won. She held his hand in hers, rubbing a thumb across the old wounds, and when she looked at him, her gaze was almost tender.

"It's funny," she said quietly. "You were always so impeccably put-together in your uniform. I never knew you were hiding all these scars under all those layers of splendour and adornment."

A spasm of acute anger lanced through him at her words – somehow, he found it so much more unbearable when she tried to be kind and compassionate than when she was furious and raging and heaping upon him scorn and contempt. "There is much you never knew about me, Miss Swann," he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. "Much you never bothered to show the slightest interest in learning."

She withdrew her hand at once, her expression instantly guarded and sullen again. "For God's sake, James," she said angrily. "You don't have to be so hostile. I am not your enemy."

"Aren't you?" He considered her, reclining naked against the wall of his room, her hair a wild mess about her face and shoulders, her pale skin flushed still from the exertions of their lovemaking. "You are the siren responsible for my downfall. I'd say you more than qualify."

He found himself relieved, in an odd way, when her face filled once more with the wrath that he found so much easier to stomach than her kindness.

"Is that it, then? It's all my fault that you're a rum-soaked shipwreck who washed ashore on the godforsaken island of Tortuga? You bear no responsibility for your fate at all?"

"Of course I do. I bear all the responsibility, every last miserable ounce," he retorted. "I know perfectly well that I'm to blame for allowing you to influence my duties to even the minutest of degrees. I will not allow myself to be so swayed again."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" she challenged, her eyes blazing. "Swaying you? To what purpose? What nefarious harms do you imagine I wish to inflict on you, James?"

"I don't know and I don't intend to find out. You've done enough."

"I have apologized to you!" She was shouting now, and it dawned on him that he had never seen her this agitated – not even when she had begged him to rescue her lover on that ill-fated quest to Isla de Muerta. "I do not know how else to make amends! I told you I never intended to hurt you, and I meant it! I did not ruin your life out of spite or malice, whatever you may choose to believe. You were my friend, James, my dear friend! I cared for you!"

Her confessionary outburst threw him wildly off-balance, knocking askance the spear of his white-hot ire, now aimed not at her but at the world beyond. He rose swiftly to his feet, needing to remove himself from her immediate presence, and stalked back to the window where he'd stood this morning, drinking his rum and regarding her in her slumbering repose. He was tugging up his breeches and buttoning them closed when he heard her rise to her feet and advance behind him, her bare feet scarcely audible against the rough wood floor. Her cool, soft hands were a torment to the exposed skin of his back, and he stiffened in response to her touch.

"My God, how did you get these?" she murmured, sliding her hands gently across his shoulders and down his back, and he knew without asking what she referred to; her voice was again full of damnable compassion, and it made him ill. The story behind those scars was not a pleasant one, one he ordinarily would never share with a woman, but he found suddenly that he wanted – no, needed – her to know. If she wanted to be so damned curious, so bloody full of sympathy, then let her know the whole ugly truth behind her romantic ideals of a life at sea.

"I was a midshipman on my first voyage," he said, willing himself not to respond to her feather-light touch. "I was ordered to the mizzenmast watch – it's typically where the new sailors are put, because the work isn't as demanding and there isn't as much to bollocks up. The watch lieutenant was a vicious old bugger named Wexham, and he was notorious for doling out brutal punishments for the most minor of infractions. And God save the man who actually made a serious error on Wexham's watch. Which, of course, is what I did."

He heard her swallow with foreboding, her hands stroking him firmer and with determined purpose. "What happened?" she whispered.

"I failed to adequately secure the rigging. I'd thought I'd tied it properly, but I didn't know my ropes well enough yet, and during a storm, it came loose, whipping across the sails in a right fury. It almost knocked a man overboard, and it took a dozen seamen to tie it down in the midst of the gale. Wexham was furious and demanded to know who'd secured the rigging, and of course, I admitted to my transgression. I knew the punishment would be harsh, but I couldn't abide another man bearing the consequences of my failure." Always the good and honest sailor he'd been, dutiful and loyal and willing to take his lumps. And look, he thought sourly, where it had gotten him.

"Wexham had me strapped to the mast and sentenced me to fifty lashes. I tried to bear it as manfully as I could, but at some point, I lost consciousness from the pain. I remember counting to twenty-six, and then I awoke in the ship's hold with the surgeon pouring a bottle of cheap gin on the raw wounds to prevent infection. Christ's blood, that was the worst agony I've ever known." He heard Elizabeth mew in sympathy, and felt her hands still against him.

"I was told later that the captain stopped Wexham from meting out the entire sentence after I'd gone under. Not that Captain Key's motives were entirely benevolent, mind you – my father was an admiral, you see, and it just wouldn't do if I died on my first posting because of a punishment taken too far," he said mordantly. He turned around then, allowing her hands to slide around him. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her distress, he realized with a curious twinge, did not bring him the satisfaction he'd imagined it would.

"How old were you?" she asked, the revulsion in her voice readily apparent.

"Thirteen."

"My God!" She stared at him in horror. "You were just a child!"

"No," he said ruefully. "There are no children in His Majesty's Navy. Boys become men very quickly, or they don't become men at all."

"That's horrible," she whimpered, and pressed herself against him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. He instantly became extremely and painfully aware that she was still naked.

"It is the unvarnished truth, Elizabeth. Life at sea is not the romantic whirlwind of freedom and adventure you seem to imagine. It is terrible food and filthy unwashed men, floggings and drownings and taking a pirate's cutlass to the belly. It is not for the weak or faint of heart."

"Is that what you think I am, James? Weak and faint of heart?" She lifted her head and regarded him with a spark of that inner fire that had so bewitched him all those years ago. "I've been sailing with Wi – with the pirates for years now. I know that it isn't all glamour and romance."

He might have bothered to offer a rejoinder to her claim, but her slip hadn't gone unnoticed. Her near mention of Will Turner's name jerked him violently out of… whatever this reverie had been, and firmly back into the reality of their lives. And the reality was that she had used and abandoned him three years ago with nary a second thought, and was now betrothed to another man. The spell was broken at once, and he slipped out of her arms brusquely, striding purposefully towards the clothes that lay heaped in the corner of his room.

"Here." He tossed her shirt and trousers onto the bed. "But don't expect me to leave the room while you dress, not after you've been parading around in the nude for nigh the past hour."

She regarded him with utter confusion, clearly unaware of what had caused his abrupt change in demeanour. "James – "

"No. Let's not pretend any more, shall we, Elizabeth? You are not going to stay here with me, and I would not have you if you did. You have misplaced Mr. Turner, or don't you recall? I presume you still intend to find him."

Her eyes flashed at his casual mention of Turner; anger at his presumption, most likely, but also something else – guilt? But whatever it was, it was fleeting, and soon she had affixed in place once more the stony mask she wore when she held him aloof and at arm's length. He found a considerable measure of relief that their relationship, such as it was, had returned to familiar ground.

"Very well," she said primly, and began to pull on the awkwardly overlarge men's clothing. "Forgive me for hoping that we could come to some sort of understanding."

"What is there to understand, Elizabeth? You have chosen your life. I have – well, I suppose it would be a lie to assert that I have chosen mine, but it remains my life all the same, and it does not, and can never, include you."

"You certainly were eager for it to include me last night and this morning," she shot back, finally clad again in her shirt and breeches as she tied her hair back into a tight queue.

He couldn't resist a smirk at her smart rejoinder; it was true enough, at any rate. "I only wanted a taste of what might have been mine, my dear. It meant nothing."

She recoiled as if slapped, and opened her mouth to retort furiously, but some force of which he was unaware stayed her, and instead she adopted a curious expression, one he could not read.

"If you insist," she said cryptically, fetching her hat and placing it atop her head. He was utterly puzzled; he'd chosen his words to be deliberately cruel, hoping to at last chase this irksome wench from his room so he could begin forgetting about her posthaste (preferably with a bottle of rum). She'd seemed to take the bait, but withdrawn at the last moment. What a confounding woman Elizabeth Swann could be.

"I do insist," he replied, and cursed silently as he realized that his voice sounded far more irritated than he'd intended. "But nevertheless, I do hope you enjoyed your deflowering. Please pass my regards to Mr. Turner."

She merely shook her head, but her eyes finally registered the disgust he'd hoped to invoke. "You are a complete pig, James Norrington. I still believe you are a good man at heart, but Tortuga has not been kind to you."

"Tortuga is kind to no one, Miss Swann."

She said nothing in reply to that and made to leave, and he thanked all the powers and principalities of the heavens – his skin was crawling, and he badly needed a drink. But before she opened the door, she turned to him once more, and he barely suppressed a groan of anguished impatience.

"Yes?" he snapped.

"Captain Brodie," she said, and whatever irritation he'd been feeling collapsed away, replaced by complete and utter bafflement.

"What? Who is that?"

"He's the captain of the merchant vessel I sailed in on, the Sagitta. I believe he's looking to hire on some permanent crew in Tortuga. I heard him speaking about it with the first mate. He mentioned, before I disembarked, that he'd be staying at the Boar's Head if I needed anything, so perhaps you might find him there. I can't imagine he'd turn down someone with as many years of experience on the sea as you."

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, that had not been it, and it showed on his face.

"What… why are you telling me this?" he frowned in bewilderment.

"Because I was wrong," she said. "I told you I didn't know how to make amends for the wrongs I've done you, but that isn't true. I'll talk to Captain Brodie, tell him that you're an experienced seaman." She paused, and her countenance took on a softer cast. "I just hate to see you rotting away in this awful place."

He felt his anger, the savage beast, roar back to life, but – somehow – with less intensity than before.

"I told you I will never accept your pity," he snarled. "Nor will I accept your charity."

"Then accept neither," she retorted. "I've told you where to find Captain Brodie. Speak to him or don't. If you truly wish to drink yourself to death on Tortuga, no one will stop you. But just… think about it. Captain Brodie's ship is a way off this island, a way out." And then she was regarding him with something, some emotion he was certain he couldn't place.

"I don't care if you want to hate me forever, James. But please, just… think about it." And with that, she opened the door and slipped out and was gone without another word.

He did not know how much longer he stood there, looking at the door she'd closed behind her. He absentmindedly tugged his lower lip into his mouth, tasting the coppery tang of his blood and running his tongue along the swollen skin where she had pierced him with her teeth. He shook himself out of his reverie and began to pull on the rest of his clothes. When he was dressed, he heaved a great sigh and ran a shaking, unsteady hand along his unshaven jaw. Perhaps… perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time to find a way off of this accursed island and get back to the sea. Where he belonged.

But not before he had a drink – his hands were beginning to tremble, and that always meant it had been too long. Shaking his head like a dog to clear away the perplexing emotions that besieged him, he waited until he was certain enough time had passed for her to have left the Mermaid's Tail, then opened the door and went downstairs to acquire a bottle of Crusty's best rum.


	5. New Beginnings, Old Farewells

James took a long, final swig of the bottle of rum and tossed it aside into an alley as he threaded his way through the grimy, crowded streets of Tortuga towards the Boar's Head. He'd nearly talked himself out of going at least ten times now; partly out of a desire to remain firmly planted on a barstool in Crusty's tavern, but mostly out of stubborn resentment against accepting anything resembling assistance from Elizabeth Swann. He'd hoped that the bottle with which he'd just fortified himself would have helped him put her out of mind, but so far it hadn't worked – instead, thoughts of her tormented him more than ever, thoughts of her soft pale skin beneath his hands and her red lips pressed against his and her tight, hot center clenching around him as he moved in her –

He swore angrily to himself, frustrated at his inability to bring his wandering thoughts to bear. Heaving a ragged sigh, he ran a distracted hand over his face, scratching at the bearded stubble there. He'd thought briefly about shaving before meeting this Captain Brodie fellow, but decided against it; wielding a straight razor in the vicinity of his throat while inebriated to any degree was probably a bad idea. He blamed the bottle of rum on her, on the need to purge her from his mind (ignoring the unpleasantly persistent voice that reminded him that he couldn't remember the last day he hadn't started off with a drink, Elizabeth Swann or no), and if this Brodie had a problem with it, well then, sod the old bastard, anyway. He shouldn't be looking for crew on Tortuga if he wasn't willing to hire a few drunkards.

And if James were honest with himself, he wasn't even certain he wanted Brodie to hire him on at all – he was far from certain, actually. It wasn't that he preferred Tortuga – God forbid, the place was the most miserable pisshole he'd ever been –and he did want, very badly, to return to the sea. But maybe Crusty hadn't been wrong in what he'd said the day before – James was finding that Tortuga fit him more and more with each passing day, as if he'd been here all along, as if he'd never been that other man at all.

_And that's why you need to get the hell off this island, before you are no longer suited for anything else._

Shaking the obnoxious nattering voice out of his head, he rounded the corner, stepping gingerly around a fellow who lay splayed out and snoring loudly in the middle of the street and resisting the sudden and malicious urge to give the man a good kick in the ribs. The Boar's Head was one of the more respectable inns on Tortuga, if any such establishment on the wretched island could be so considered, and accordingly it was located along the cleanest thoroughfare in the port – which meant that there was marginally less filth and squalor than along most of the other streets. James stopped just shy of the door, his nagging doubts renewed as he stood before the threshold, knowing somehow that once he'd crossed the portal there would be no going back. He could not say he enjoyed his life, but he had gotten used to it. And that, he supposed, was the whole of the problem.

His musings were abruptly terminated when he was shoved violently forward, his shoulder slamming against the door to the tavern.

"Oi, bugger, get in or get outta the way!" A squat, grubby miscreant with blackened teeth and a garish golden earring stood with his chest puffed out in a clear display of dominance. James turned to regard the man lazily and with an equal measure of perturbation and disgust.

"I said, if you ain't goin' in, then get outta my – " The pirate's words choked off into a startled bleat as James wrapped a tight fist around the man's kerchief and pulled him in close, his muscles flexing against the leaden weight of the man's oversized bulk. Without a word, James half-dragged, half-hurled him through the open door, and the man sailed into the Boar's Head and crashed to the floor in a thunderous din. The tavern quieted for a moment, the patrons peering across the room at the fat man sprawled gracelessly across the floor, before the disturbance was forgotten and the men resumed their drinking.

James stepped into the tavern with a desultory air, eyeing the heap of pirate on the floor before him with a languid indifference. The man was fuming and stammering, incoherent curses sputtering forth from his mouth in a jumbled stream as he rolled over in a clumsy attempt to right himself – an attempt that was stopped cold by James's booted foot planted firmly on his chest.

"You wanted in, didn't you? Well, here you are." He pressed his boot down hard on the pirate's chest until the man was wheezing for air. "Now get up and get your drink and leave me be, or your pride will be the least of what ails you." He lifted his foot then and nudged the man, not gently, shoving him over and away. James turned then to the rest of the tavern, noticed more than a few faces regarding him with a mixture of suspicion, distrust, and approval, and decided that would do for an entrance.

Sidling up to the bar, he debated buying a bottle of rum, but in truth, he was still enjoying the pleasant aftereffects of the bottle he'd gotten from Crusty. And he wasn't there (much as he was loath to admit it) to drink, anyway. The barkeep meandered over, fixing James with a flat, expectant gaze.

"I'm here to see a Captain Brodie. I've heard he's hiring on hands," James said.

The barkeep grunted and nodded towards the far distant corner of the bar. "Aye, Cap'n Brodie be over there. Don't suppose you'll be buyin' a drink, then?" But James was already gone, making his way through the crowded tavern towards the dim corner where Brodie waited. James could make out no one man distinctly through the crowd, and as he threaded his way through the mob of men, he bumped into a slight man sitting slumped over at a table, head hung low and moaning disconsolately into his mug of ale.

"Ay, mind where you're goin'! This ale is me last po- pos- possess – thing I got in the world!" It was Simple Pete, his voice morose and forlorn as he wailed into his beer. He looked up from his beer and did a start as he recognized James looming over him.

"You! You – you – you robbed me!" Pete wailed. "I ain't got nothin' left and it's coz of you!"

"You've got your life, haven't you?" James growled. "Which is more than your friends can say. Perhaps you should learn to keep better company." Stifling a curse of irritation, he brushed past before Pete could reply, wending his way past a throng of tavern-goers who stood clustered near a table tucked against the back wall of the Boar's Head.

The men appeared dispirited, and James could overhear snippets of their conversation as he walked by: "Thinks he's too good for the likes of us, does he?" and "Well, bugger him and bugger his ship, anyway – it's probably a rotten old rubbish barge," and other similar sentiments floated past his ears. So – Brodie was a demanding captain who ran a tight ship, then? The part of James who was a lifelong sailor, who'd climbed so determinedly and skilfully through the officer's ranks of the Royal Navy, was assuaged; but the part of James who was a drifting fragment of drunken Tortuga flotsam, who was even now more inebriated than he'd care to admit, wondered if he hadn't at last fallen into that category of lowly men who were too bedraggled and disgraceful to crew even a modest merchant vessel.

"Well now, laddie, don't look so sore. I hafta say you look a right sight better than most of these sorry flea-bitten bilge rats callin' themselves sailors. Why, you look like you even know how to tie a knot or two."

The not-quite-mocking words, delivered in a thick but lilting Scottish brogue, caught James's ear, and he noticed then the lanky man who leaned against the back wall of the tavern, one booted leg propped casually against the wall behind him.

"Captain Brodie, I presume?"

"Aye, the very same," Brodie said, lips creasing in a thin smile as he unfurled himself, cat-like, from his perch against the wall. He was nearly as tall as James, but where James was broad and strapping, Brodie was whip-thin and slender, though he moved with a lithe grace that bespoke a not-inconsiderable strength. His face was as long and narrow as the rest of him, capped by short-shorn black hair that culminated in a widow's peak just over his forehead. His eyes were small and dark and cunning and they regarded James with an enigmatic yet undeniably amused expression.

"Well, I'm certainly glad I seem to have made a favourable impression," James drawled sardonically.

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far yet, my good sir. Though I do admire of the way you handled that ruffian at the door. Clean and simple, without an excess of violence. It shows you know how to handle yourself, but you also know the value of restraint. Good qualities in any seaman, I've found." Brodie's close-set eyes continued to appraise James, who had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that he was being regarded as a piece of chattel at a marketplace.

"You certainly seem eager enough to dole out praise to a man who has yet to make a favourable impression upon you," James noted dryly.

"You'll find that my favour is extraordinarily difficult to earn, Mister…"

James hesitated only a moment, as he always did before giving his name. He'd had pirates swing fists at him or draw blades on him the moment they realized he was the dread Commodore Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy. Or had been, at any rate. Now, he was just another drunken, down-on-his-luck sailor who couldn't even manage to truly impress a middling merchant captain. He felt an oddly irate sense of pride suffuse him, and he met Brodie's shrewd gaze resolutely with his own.

"Norrington," he said. "James Norrington."

"Ah yes, Mr. Norrington! You're the one the lass told me of. What a comely thing she was!" Brodie's eyes, at last unguarded, twinkled in bawdy delight. "And what a lucky man you are, I might add. A bonny lass such as she, and so spirited to boot! Sang your praises to the heavens, she did."

James suppressed a sudden and intense urge to grab Brodie's head between his hands and smash it savagely and repeatedly into the wall of the tavern. "Did she now," he grated, feeling his jaw muscles twitch in agitation.

The twinkle in Brodie's eyes faltered every so slightly as he cocked a curious eyebrow. "Or perhaps I've misjudged your… acquaintance… with – Miss Swann, was it? In that case, my sincerest apologies." James could not decide if Brodie's words were offered as sincere condolence or gentle mockery, but it scarcely mattered, as the mere allusion to Elizabeth Swann had set his hands trembling with an excitability that he was not sure whether to attribute to vexation, lust, or resentment at her sheer effrontery.

"My personal affairs are none of your business," James said brusquely, unwilling to discuss his – could it even be called a relationship? – with Elizabeth Swann with anyone else, let alone a curiously chirpy Scottish trader who was taking far too much amusement in his discomfort. His teeth itched and he longed desperately for a drink.

"Aye, so they're not," Brodie affirmed, his eyes nevertheless narrowing at James's rebuke. "But your proclivity for rum – now that is my concern." He raised a hand to forestall James's objection. "Don't bother t'argue with me, lad – I can spot a rum hound a mile away, and besides, you smell like you've already been drowning your sorrows this very morning." James scowled at Brodie's suddenly severe countenance, smothering yet another impulse to haul off and sock the man in the mouth.

"The _Sagitta_ is the finest brig in the Caribbean and I run her tight and ship-shape. That means no drunkards lollygagging about the deck, or pitching themselves off the sides, and certainly no rum-besotted tipplers making a muck of things. I trust I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," James said, his voice tight and clipped. "Now allow me to make something clear to you. I am a better sailor when I am falling over drunk than most men are sober. I could tie any knot or rig any mast blind and without a moment's hesitation. I have sailed a man-o'-war through the Spanish Main in a raging gale and lost not a single soul." The sudden, painful memory of the hurricane off Tripoli came to him then with a renewed fury, but he forged on. "I am a lifelong seaman with experience and discipline to spare. But if you'd care to hire one of these other slack-jawed miscreants who can barely button their trousers in the morning, then by all means. For if you meant to hire a sober sailor, you certainly called on the wrong port."

Brodie stared hard at James, clearly unused to being censured so boldly. "Now those don't sound like the words of a man desperate for work, do they? They sound like the words of a man with something to prove. I don't have any room for troublemakers on my ship, Norrington."

"Whatever trouble there may be on your ship won't be on my account, Captain," James said tersely. "You want experienced crew. I have experience in spades. Hire me or don't, but I have no time for these petty games."

"No time?" Brodie was suddenly amused once more. "And from which pressing appointments am I keeping you, Mr. Norrington? Another date with the bottle?" He waved his hand in amusement, cutting off James mid-growl. "Oh, calm yourself, mate. You've the right of it, after all – I hardly expected to find a sober sailor in Tortuga, did I?"

"Then I'm glad we understand each other," James grated, wishing he hadn't turned down that drink earlier.

"Do we? I suppose that remains to be seen," Brodie said cryptically. "But no matter. 'Tisn't much to understand, after all. Whoever you are or whatever you might have been in the past, you are not the captain of the _Sagitta_. I am, and my word is law. Do you understand, Mr. Norrington?"

"Perfectly," James said, less combatively this time. "I am fit for any duty aboard ship and willing to serve at your pleasure… Captain."

If Brodie detected any insolence in James's tone, he gave no indication. "Then I have a space on my ship for you, Mr. Norrington," Brodie said, smiling thinly as he reached out to grasp James's forearm in a comradely squeeze. "You'll just need to sign your name to the ship's manifest here." He withdrew from an inner pocket of his burgundy greatcoat a sheaf of paper, from which he took a large scroll and smoothed it out flat on the table before them. He motioned to a man whom James hadn't previously noticed standing discreetly in the corner of the tavern, who brought a quill and inkwell over to the table.

"A few administrative details, as it were," Brodie said as James took the quill and regarded the manifest. The _Sagitta_ apparently was manned by twenty-three other crewmen, if the signatures on the scroll were a current muster; a blank space beneath the twenty-third name awaited his signature.

"First, you'll get paid a cut of whatever business we do, the crew's share being split equally amongst the lot of you," Brodie said. "You'll get paid as soon as I make an accounting of our bounty. Second, you can play lots, drink your rum, and misbehave to your heart's delight in your berth after hours, but you will be ship-shape and ready to perform any and all duties required of you when you're above deck. If you're unfit for duty I'll have you flogged and left at the next port of call. If you think you can manage all that, then welcome aboard the _Sagitta_."

James stared at the manifest, feeling the weight of the moment bearing down on him. As hardscrabble as his life was on Tortuga, he had to admit that he enjoyed answering to no master, indulging in no one's business but his own. Of course, that business had largely consisted of eking out a pittance with which to purchase liquor and whores, and there was only one end to that particular road. That, in the end, made his decision rather simple.

"I think I can manage," James said levelly, meeting Brodie's eyes as he signed his name to the manifest with a bold, scrawling flourish.

"I certainly hope so," Brodie said, still smiling that thin enigmatic smile. "Welcome to the crew, Mr. Norrington. We cast off at dawn."

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

"I never thought I'd say it, but it'll be a shame to see you go, Norrington," Crusty said ruefully as he passed James yet another bottle. "Got used to seeing you around, I suppose. And your coin was regular enough, as coin goes on this pisshole island."

"You're a man of exquisitely tender sentiment, Crusty. You just might bring a tear to my eye." James took a hearty swig of the bottle as he returned to the raven-haired beauty who batted her eyes coquettishly at him from her perch atop the table. She slid eagerly into his lap as he sat down, and he groaned in delight as his face came level with her generous bosom, which threatened to spill out of her too-tight bodice.

"Got a drop for me, handsome?" The whore – Josephine, he recalled dimly – accepted the rum gratefully as James busied himself with the intricate lace. He'd learned early that it was best to promptly take care of any tasks that required manual dexterity before the rum too thoroughly fogged his mind. He'd made the mistake once of failing to unlace a wench's bodice before the liquor and lust had set in, and the next morning, the whore had been livid that he'd ripped her best dress. He'd had to avoid the Blushing Virgin (the most inappropriately named brothel in the whole of the world, or so James was convinced) for a good several months after that.

"Oi, you rascal, remember you've got a room! At least for one more night," Crusty groused from the bar as James eagerly buried his face in Josephine's ample breasts. "If you're going to start carrying on, take it upstairs."

"Oh, Crusty, you're no fun at all," Josephine giggled as James slipped a hand under her loose bodice and pinched a rosy nipple.

"It's quite all right, my dear – I do believe I'm ready to retire," James growled lustily, trailing a path of kisses from her bosom to her neck. He slid Josephine off his lap and stood unsteadily, the bottle in one hand and the whore's hand in his other, and began to make his way along the well-trod path between the tavern and his small dingy room.

He reflected, later, as he lay sated and sweaty and entangled with the wench in his bed, that he would miss his shabby little room, in a way. It had been his home, such as it were, for three years. It had been his refuge from the griefs of life, the place where he sought desperate comfort in a cold world with other lonely lost souls and countless bottles of rum. And – fittingly, perhaps, one of the last memories he'd have of the place – it had been where he'd taken Elizabeth Swann's maidenhood, had felt her raw desire for him, and in that found a measure of vindication for her cruel rejection all those years ago.

"God above, why can't I get that siren out of my head?" He turned over fitfully, disentangling himself from the whore as visions of Elizabeth Swann gasping and writhing beneath him consumed him once more. He could see her even now, naked and ready for him, begging him to take her, wrapping herself in his sheets, pinned against his wall, hands tenderly caressing his body, mapping his scars, showing more concern for him than she ever had before, than any of his innumerable Tortugan whores ever had –

"Handsome? What's wrong?" Josephine's hands slid around his chest, stilling his restless movements. "You having a bad dream, love?"

The heat of her touch against his skin renewed his desire, and he decided he would try to expunge Elizabeth Swann from his thoughts the same way he had for the past three years.

"Nothing you can't put out of my mind," he murmured, rolling over atop her and seizing her lips in a rough kiss.

It was, of course, a lie, and even as he fucked her, he could no longer convince himself that he was not once again imagining Elizabeth in her place. When he came in her, he rolled over at once, out of her embrace, and stared hard at the window into the darkness outside, ignoring the whore's indignant whimper. When dawn came, he would be out the door and out of this room forever, and maybe – finally – he'd put all of this god-damned mess behind him for good.


	6. Welcome Aboard

James stood at the window of his tiny room for the last time, looking out into the indigo of the predawn Caribbean sky as he shrugged his coat over his shoulders. Downing the last of the rum from the bottle, he turned to regard the whore, who slumbered soundly, unabashedly nude and sprawled across his bed on top of the covers. She would wake well after dawn, he imagined; at any rate, the room was Crusty's once more, and if the gnarly old barkeeper didn't mind one of his whores languishing the morning away in the tiny tavern room, well then, it certainly wasn't his problem. He would be long gone, sailing away from the wretched port of Tortuga for the first time in many long months.

Minutes later, he walked out of the door of the Mermaid's Tail, sparing the briefest of backwards glances for the tavern that had so reliably supplied him with the rum and the whores that had made his bleak existence marginally more endurable. Shaking his head to clear away the malaise, James reminded himself that he would be out on the open sea in just hours, out where he belonged. Feeling a sense of purpose for the first time in recent memory, he hastened his pace toward the harbour where the tall-masted merchant ships were berthed at the dock.

The sight of ships in a harbour never failed to lift his spirits. The masts soaring skyward, latticed by the intricate network of rigging that secured the sails, waiting for their chance to unfurl in the wind of the open seas; the polished hulls, gleaming in the sun; the intricately carved figureheads jutting forth from the prows, directing their charges forward across the waves and serving as a totem to appease the fickle whimsy of the sea spirits. Yes, the sight of a ship in full splendour always set his heart to racing, as it did now as he approached the line of ships docked at Tortuga's harbour. Some of the ships, to be sure, were shabby and in poor repair, a sight which had never failed to stir ire within him, even when he was deep-mired in drunken misery. A poorly maintained ship was a sure sign of a poor captain, and as James traversed the briny, half-rotted wooden planks of the dock, he felt a shiver of apprehension. What if the _Sagitta_ was such a vessel, despite all of Brodie's bluster that he was a rigorous and exacting captain who kept a tight ship?

But, as it turned out, his dread was entirely unfounded. The _Sagitta_ rose before him in the early morning mist, and James felt a thrill as he beheld her stately beauty. She was a sleek brig, three-masted, long but narrow; her hull painted an inky black that was visible even in the dim predawn light. She was without a doubt the finest ship he'd sailed on since his days in the Royal Navy.

"She's a real beauty, ain't she? Fast as the arrow she's named for, to boot."

The voice – a thickly-accented Yorkshire drawl – did not belong to Brodie, and James turned from his admiration of the ship to behold a sturdily-built, tawny-haired, ruddy-faced man, who thrust a beefy hand in his direction.

"Name's Tom Riggins," the man said as James grasped his hand in salutation. "I'm the quartermaster and the master gunner aboard the _Sagitta_. Double duty, but the cap'n trusts me with it, I suppose. You must be one of the new hires."

"James Norrington," he said. "Though I am compelled to ask – what use has a merchant vessel for a master gunner?"

"Ah," Riggins said, his friendly face creasing into a grin. "Well now, it's no secret there's more pirates roamin' these waters than a man can count. The cap'n believes the best defence is a good offence, so to speak."

"I see," James said, eyeing the _Sagitta_ favourably. "She certainly would be a capital prize for any band of villains."

"Aye, that she would," Riggins agreed heartily. "So you see the necessity of protectin' her. Can't rely on the damned Navy, that's for sure. Always there whenever you don't want to be bothered and never there when you do."

James stiffened involuntary in umbrage, though he said nothing – the Navy and its reputation were, after all, no longer his concern. But his movement did not go unnoticed by Riggins, who half-winced in apology.

"Ah, you used to be in the Navy, did you? Well, I meant no disrespect, Mr. Norrington. There's plenty of good men what've been in the Navy. I've known a few in my time. Good sailors, every one of 'em."

"You needn't apologize," James said crisply. "I've not been in His Majesty's service for some time. Hence why I am here."

"Of course, sure," Riggins said hurriedly. "Well, that's your business, I reckon. I won't pry." James was about to sardonically thank him for his courtesy, but Riggins suddenly started, as though abruptly aware of a pressing matter.

"And here I am gossiping like an old woman at the market, and the sun's just about come up," Riggins said. "Well, come on then, let's get you aboard. The captain'll have kittens if we're not on board and squared away by dawn. Big on punctuality, he is."

James followed Riggins up the gangway and felt a weight lift from his chest as he set foot for the first time on the deck of the _Sagitta_. It had truly happened, at last – he'd escaped from the self-made hell he'd created for himself on Tortuga. But, he reminded himself sternly, fortune could never be taken for granted, especially at sea. Today's boon could turn into tomorrow's bane as quick as the winds could turn a sunny day into a deadly gale. It was a piece of wisdom James was determined never to forget, as he once had, when he had allowed his rank and his skill to blind him to danger and to the fickle nature of fate, which took no greater pleasure than in laying low a man who had succumbed to hubris, that deadliest of all faults.

The crew had gathered around the quarterdeck at the direction of Riggins and a huge, lumbering bald man James assumed was the boatswain, and James tried to take a measure of them as they stood to varying states of attention. Some faces were open and friendly, and returned his gaze with a fleeting smile or nod of greeting; others were stoic or stern and stared resolutely forward at the quarterdeck where Brodie would no doubt be soon appearing to address the men before they cast off for ports unknown. Upon sighting a familiar face in the crowd, James looked away quickly before the other man could catch his gaze, and he turned his face back to the quarterdeck in time to see Brodie striding purposely across the opposite side of the deck, bounding onto the quarterdeck with a agile confidence. Brodie, James reflected wryly, was quite the showman.

Indeed, the Scottish captain was dressed impeccably and with resplendence, no doubt with the intention of making a gallant impression upon his new crew. Brodie again sported the burgundy greatcoat James recalled from the Boar's Head, its length flapping impressively behind him. Frilled sleeves protruded from the arms of the coat, framing Brodie's long, nimble hands, and dark brown breeches disappeared into a pair of knee-length black leather boots that must have cost more coin than James had seen in a year. James could not help but recall the dilettantish pomp of some of the pirates he had had the misfortune to know – all the Scot was missing was a cocked and feathered tricorn topped with a great gaudy plume, like that ridiculous hat Turner had worn on the day he'd ruined James's life and stolen his fiancé out from under his nose.

A thunderously ill mood beset James at the thought, and he wondered if he would ever cease this vexing habit of bringing _her_ to mind at the most inopportune times. As always, the merest consideration of her made him ache for a drink, and he clenched his fists with agitated distraction, wishing now he'd had the presence of mind to buy a few spare bottles of Crusty's finest to stow away for the journey.

Fortunately, Brodie chose that moment to begin his welcome to the crew, and James was able to subsume thoughts of _her_ beneath the surface as he focused on the Scot's thick brogue.

"A good morning and welcome aboard to all of you!" Brodie shouted, his voice at once commanding and congenial. "You've all met me, but in case you were too deep into your cups and forgot, I'll introduce myself again." Brodie's eyes flickered at James for the merest moment, filled with an impish mirth, and James clenched his jaw in annoyance.

"I'm Captain Andrew Brodie, and this beautiful lady on which you are all currently privileged to sail is my ship, the _Sagitta_. I'd say she was my one and only, but my wife might take a wee bit of exception to such a bold claim." A few nervous, obligatory titters arose from the crew, but James's was not among them. He was puzzled more than amused at the thought of a man like Brodie having a wife – he'd seemed to be a man who had little time for anything besides his life as a merchant mariner. Not, James reflected, that he was the most astute judge of character. He'd learned _that_ lesson the hard way.

"You already know what's expected of you. Do your job, do it well, and don't make trouble or bollocks anything up. I've no time for scoundrels, layabouts, troublemakers, or bumblers, and if you're any of the above you'll be left at the next port along with whatever punishment might suit your transgressions." He paused dramatically, letting the solemnity of the threat sink into the men's heads. "If you're none of those things, then we'll get along just fine. You can spend your time ashore as you see fit, but if you run afoul of the law, don't expect me to vouch for your sterling character."

Another smattering of forced laughter followed, and Brodie smiled indulgently in the manner of a schoolmaster regarding his group of wayward young charges. "So that's everything, I reckon. There are two other men you all need to know aboard this vessel: Mr. Riggins, the quartermaster, will have your work detail assigned to you, so speak to him as soon as you're dismissed. And Mr. Kurtz –" he gestured at the hulking shaven-headed behemoth – "is the ship's boatswain, so try to stay on his good side." More laughter, though James noted that Kurtz, who stood stony-faced and immobile as a statue, did not crack even the barest hint of a smile. He was not surprised; captains prided themselves on selecting the most intimidating boatswain possible, since the boatswain was typically in charge of administering punishment aboard ship, and it appeared Brodie was no different. James got the distinct impression that Kurtz enjoyed indulging in the opportunity to mete out a brutal flogging, and made a mental note to avoid doing anything that might draw the ire of Brodie or his fearsome boatswain.

"As soon as you men take up your places, we'll drop anchor and sail for Port-au-Prince," Brodie declared, and James jerked his head sharply up in surprise – a motion that did not go unnoticed by the captain.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Norrington, is there a problem?" Brodie said smoothly. James felt the cold eyes of Kurtz staring daggers at him, and he felt a shiver of trepidation despite himself. Surely a man could not be flogged for being surprised at the news that they – a vessel comprised almost entirely of British sailors – were headed for a French port?

"I was merely unaware that Saint-Domingue was open to English traders, Captain," James said smoothly. It was, after all, the source of his surprise – and if Brodie wanted him to be scraping and deferential, well, he could play that game. He'd spent enough time as a midshipman and a lieutenant to know how to handle irascible commanding officers.

"Well, I'm not an Englishman, now am I, Mr. Norrington," Brodie said with a wry twist of his lips, and James could detect an undercurrent of steel to the jesting words. Bloody Scots and their bloody national pride.

"But your point is well taken," Brodie then said magnanimously, leaving James to wonder again at the mercurial nature of this puzzling man. "You are, of course, correct in that it is rare for a ship flying British colours to make a French port, given the animosities that exist between our people. But I have trading contacts at Port-au-Prince who are well satisfied with the goods I bring them, and those contacts just happen to have very powerful friends who are willing to overlook the national origin of the _Sagitta_ and her crew. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Norrington?"

It did not, as a matter of fact; in truth, it had only whetted his interest. But he nodded firmly and replied, "Of course, Captain."

"Good!" Brodie clapped his hands. "Well, that settles it, then. You greenhorns go see Mr. Riggins for your work detail, and the rest of you old sea dogs, you know what your job is, so get to it!" The men were just about to disperse, a handful of crew turning to find Riggins, when Brodie suddenly turned back to the crew, his eyes drawing level with James.

"Mr. Norrington." Brodie regarded him with an inscrutable expression. "I would see you in my stateroom after you've spoken to Mr. Riggins. I expect you there in half an hour sharp." With no further explanation, he strode from the quarterdeck and made his way below the quarterdeck.

But James had no time to ponder what Brodie could possibly want of him; he joined the queue of men who were receiving their assignments from Riggins, keeping his head down and avoiding meeting the gazes of any of the other new sailors. He was not in the mood for friendly conversation at the moment.

"You! You again, turnin' up like a bad penny! You better not steal my coin again, no sir!"

He was _certainly_ not in the mood for this. Turning with a groan, he met the dim-yet-indignant glare of Simple Pete with an exasperated defiance.

"Oh, for the love of God, you great idiot! Another word about your godforsaken coin – "

"Well now, settle down, Mr. Norrington. The man can't help being a bit slow," Riggins said calmly, and James turned to see that the rest of the new men had received their assignments, scurrying off to their duties aboard ship and leaving only he and Simple Pete. "Mister, er, Pete – you shouldn't be so harsh with Mr. Norrington, now. You know it was his word with the skipper what got you your job here, don't you?"

Simple Pete gawped in surprise and astonishment, and James felt a great annoyance at Riggins and his big friendly blabbermouth – he'd had no intention of telling Pete that, after signing his own name to the manifest, he'd recommended Brodie hire the simpleton for deck-swabbing duties. He still didn't know what had inspired him, whether it had been guilt, concern, or merely a desire to see a familiar face from his time in Tortuga, however vacant and cow-like that face might be. But he'd certainly never had any intention of letting Pete know the identity of his benefactor, and now Riggins had gone and ruined it all.

"You got me on? You did me a good turn? I – I – I didn't think you had it in you, Norrington!" Pete gazed at him adoringly, through new eyes, and James wanted to bury his face in his palms. Now Pete would follow him around as he'd followed Bill Hardy, trailing at his heels like a loyal puppy. It was the last thing James wanted, and he shot a glare at the obliviously grinning Riggins.

"Looks like you've got a new friend, Mr. Norrington," Riggins said, eyes twinkling. Damn the man, he knew exactly what he'd done, and James heaved a sigh as he resigned himself to the inevitable. Pete continued gawping at him in astonishment, until Riggins informed him that he was to begin swabbing the poop deck at once. James shooed him away and Pete ambled off towards the poop deck, grinning stupidly over his shoulder at James all the while.

"I hope you know what you've done," James groused as Riggins grinned boyishly. "I'll never be rid of the blighter now. I should've realized no good deed goes unpunished."

"Oh, now, don't be that way, Mr. Norrington. Pete don't seem a bad sort. A bit simple, to be sure, but – well, it's good to have friends, isn't it?"

Friends. James hadn't had a friend in longer than he could remember. He felt the bitterness swelling up within him, but something about the benevolence of Riggins' wide smile stayed the caustic words at the tip of his tongue. Riggins, for his part, seemed to detect James's inner tumult, and wisely dropped the topic.

"Well, Mr. Norrington, the cap'n tells me you're an experienced sailor, so I'll put you on the main mast. You'll answer to me and Kurtz only; well, and the cap'n, of course. He seems to think you can be trusted without much supervision." James nodded curtly. After his dreadful flogging at the hands of Lieutenant Wexham in his youth, he'd never made a mistake performing ship's duties, not even a small one. Not until the hurricane, at any rate.

"I will perform any task you put to me and perform it ably, Mr. Riggins," he said, shaking away the bad memories.

Riggins grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't doubt it, Mr. Norrington. But you'd better go see the cap'n, since he asked for you specifically and all. He's not a man to be kept waiting."

* * *

"So tell me, Mr. Norrington," Brodie said as he poured a measure of whisky from a glass decanter into two relatively-clean glasses, "whether you've had the privilege of tasting the water of life?"

James sat in the captain's stateroom, and it was unlike any stateroom he'd ever been in before, even his own back when he'd commanded the _Dauntless_. The small but cozy room was filled with all manner of esoterica and bric-a-brac – small marble friezes of indeterminate, possibly Greek, origin; framed curio cases filled with exotic insects, spread and pinned for display; a variety of jewellery and trinkets crafted from a rainbow's variety of fine metals and gemstones.

"The water of life?" James queried, picking up his glass. The aroma of it wafted up to him, a warm and intoxicating blend of peat and wood, mixed with spices.

"Typical provincial Englishman," Brodie scoffed, picking up the glass and casting a wryly amused look at James. "You poor sods are so besotted with your rotgut gin and rum that you can't even appreciate a truly fine spirit when it is presented before you."

"You mean whisky, then."

"Ah," Brodie said, crooking a finger, eyes glinting with merriment. "Not just any whisky, my friend. Scottish whisky. The finest of all libations ever distilled by any man. Go on, my good sir. Try it and tell me I'm wrong. But I should warn you – your rum will be a sore disappointment to your palate once you've tasted a single malt whisky from the highlands of Inverness-shire."

James obliged his captain and took a sip of the potent liquor. It burned on the way down, much more than the sweet sugarcane of the rum did, but the finish was a complex mixture of flavours, strongly reminiscent of the peat and smoke and wood he'd sensed before imbibing. It was, he imagined, as if he'd just swallowed the very essence of Scotland.

"Incredible, isn't it? But I'm sad to say I've likely ruined you for other refreshments, now. It's a disappointment many an Englishman has experienced after visiting our fair land."

"It is certainly… robust," James allowed, swallowing another drop of the whisky. "Much harsher to drink than rum, I must confess."

"Oh, you've been spoiled by the West Indies," Brodie waved a hand dismissively. "This land will be the ruination of a once-proud people, Mr. Norrington. You mark my words." He emphasized his point with a tilt of his glass before taking a hearty swallow of scotch.

"With all due respect, Captain Brodie, I assume you didn't summon me to your stateroom to treat me to a whisky tasting." James swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, knowing his words were dancing on the line of insolence. But he was growing weary of the constant verbal sparring the captain seemed determined to engage in and hoped to spur Brodie to cut to the heart of whatever matter he wished to discuss.

"With equal respect, Mr. Norrington, perhaps that is exactly why I summoned you." Evidently, James thought ruefully as Brodie grinned at him wolfishly over his glass, the Scottish captain would cease with his word games when he was good and ready.

"Well," Brodie said at last, after James had held his gaze with a level neutrality for several moments and offered no parry to the captain's latest quip, "I see you're not one for small talk. That must have made the privileges of your rank quite tedious indeed, Commodore."

James stiffened as he'd done earlier when Riggins had mentioned the Navy, wondering if he would always have this reaction to any reminders of his once-illustrious career. He was inclined, at first, to ask how Brodie had known of his history, but if Elizabeth hadn't told him, then he surely would have heard it from any bar hound in Tortuga, most of whom took delight in telling the story of the once-proud officer's shame.

"The politics were always a drudgery," James affirmed, deciding to stay on safe ground as he took another sip of scotch.

"And the politics were your downfall in the end, weren't they?" Brodie affixed James with a penetrating gaze. So Brodie was going to confront him directly about it, then. James realized he'd never truly discussed the affair with anyone – after he'd been forced to resign his commission, he'd packed his bags and purchased fare on the first ship leaving Port Royal. A ship that had just happened to be sailing for Tortuga.

James contemplated his whisky, staring into the amber pool as if it were an oracle which would grant him the absolution he sought.

"I was tasked with tracking down and apprehending a notorious pirate who had made an appearance in Port Royal," he began. "I had a chance to end it all, to capture and hang the pirate myself, but I… showed mercy. And so I was sent to chase him about the seven seas, playing catch-up all the while." James sighed, remembered his promise to _her_ , to give Sparrow and his new little tagalong, that whelp Turner, a day's head start. Because she had asked him to, because she had looked at him with those large brown eyes, batted her eyelashes at him mercilessly, and begged him to spare the pirate and the man whom she declared she had, in truth, loved all along. The recollection of her betrayal filled him with bile.

"I chased them all the way to Tripoli, and had nearly caught up with them, when a storm began to brew. I've weathered many more storms than I can remember at sea, and this one seemed no different, so I sent my ship forward to pursue the pirate. But before long it became apparent that I'd sent my ship into the midst of a hurricane. We sailed straight into the shearing winds and the waves broke the ship apart like a child's toy." He started resolutely into the whisky glass, unwilling to look at the man across the table. The memories were a curse that he knew would haunt him until his dying day.

"Most of the men aboard died. There were fourteen survivors, of which I was, of course, one. I was immediately blamed by the admiralty for not having the good sense to die with my ship as a captain is meant to do. And, of course, they were looking for a scapegoat to blame for the Navy's continued inability to capture Jack bloody Sparrow. I was as good a one as any, since it was, after all, my fault that he didn't hang from the gallows in Port Royal." He drained the rest of the whisky in one gulp, grimacing as the fire coursed its way down his throat, and set the glass on the table with a definitive clink.

"So there you have it. The story of my disgrace and how I came to be a drunkard on Tortuga. Are you certain you still wish to have me aboard your ship, Captain Brodie?" James, at last, lifted his gaze to meet Brodie's, whose expression was hidden beneath the already-familiar mask of inscrutability.

Brodie took a lingering sip of his scotch, the mask never wavering. At last, he set down his glass and regarded James with a piercing stare.

"Every man makes mistakes, Mr. Norrington. What matters is what he does with the lessons they teach him." He pulled out the decanter again, eyebrows quirking in a silent question. James nodded and pushed his glass towards Brodie, who filled it with more whisky.

"So yes, Mr. Norrington, I am certain I still want you aboard my ship. A man of your experience is not to be taken lightly by any veteran sailor, and I have no particular aversion to your reputation as the so-called 'Scourge of Piracy,' nor to your subsequent fall from grace. The affairs of His Majesty's Royal Navy and its imperial ambitions are of little concern to me, as are the affairs of pirates, provided they leave me and my ship be. I'm willing to give you a fresh start, if you're willing to take it."

James felt an odd mixture of emotions course through him. A fresh start… wasn't that what he'd wanted when he made the decision to leave Crusty's tavern and his miserable life in Tortuga to seek out Brodie in the first place? And yet, something about the blithe way Brodie said the words bothered him. Perhaps it was because his fresh start was not anyone else's to grant – if he were to find absolution, it would have to be from within. It was not a thing that could be bestowed by another, no matter how well meaning.

But at any rate, Brodie wasn't going to have him thrown overboard, which was a relief. "My past will not be an issue," he said as much for his own benefit as for Brodie's. "I am ready and able to be at sea again, sir."

Brodie's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Well, that's good, laddie, because you're already at sea."

James smiled politely at the humour, his eyes drawn away from Brodie by a particularly vibrant blue butterfly which was affixed in the centre of a large curio frame hanging on the bulkhead beside the port hole. Brodie followed his gaze, saw what had drawn his attention, and smiled perhaps the first true smile James had seen from him yet.

"So do you like my collection? That one you're looking at is called a blue morpho. It's native to Brazil. A real beauty, isn't it?" James nodded his assent as he surveyed the rest of the butterflies, dragonflies, and other assorted tropical insects pinned to the curio.

"You see, I like to collect rare and unusual things, Mr. Norrington. I find that, in possessing something of unique value, I am able to appreciate the splendour of the world and all its offerings all the more. Don't you agree?" Brodie's eyes were alight now as he took in his collection, delighted that James had shown interest.

"I suppose I've never really thought of it before," James replied, picking up a bronze representation of a beetle with shimmering blue gemstones set into recesses within its wings.

"That's a scarab amulet from Egypt," Brodie explained as James turned the beetle figure around in his hands. "The ancient Egyptians believed that scarabs represented the life cycle brought forth by the sun god, Ra."

James looked up at Brodie and quirked a curious eyebrow. "You're quite well-learned for a merchant sea captain."

Brodie grinned, and once again James could not tell if the smile was mocking or sincere. "Aye, well, even a Scottish sailor can pick up a book or two, can't he, Mr. Norrington? You English gentlemen – you think you have a monopoly on knowledge."

"I can assure you that I'm no longer much of a gentleman," James said drily. "Nor have I ever assumed that Englishmen hold a monopoly on anything." Other than, perhaps, a bewildered distrust of the wily and occasionally belligerent Scots.

"Once a gentleman, always a gentleman, no matter how low life has brought you," Brodie replied. "But don't take that as an insult, my good sir – indeed, it's quite agreeable to have another learned man aboard. It's a wee bit lonely when you realize you're one of perhaps four men on the entire ship who knows his letters."

James supposed it must indeed be lonely for the captain of a merchant ship who was so clearly of a different class than his crew; at least he, for most of his career, had been able to socialise with his fellow officers, and had formed friendships with many of them. But loneliness was the fate of a ship's captain; a man could not expect to become intimate with men over whom he ruled and for whom he made life or death decisions. Such intimacy brought only pain.

"With all due respect, sir, it isn't customary for a captain to socialise with members of his crew, no matter how well-learned they may be," James said. "Though I do… appreciate the sentiment."

"With all due respect to you, Mr. Norrington, you really must stop saying 'with all due respect.' Such a worthless phrase. After all, if you were speaking to me with less than due respect, we would both have quite the problem on our hands, wouldn't we?" Brodie steepled his fingers. "And, at any rate, you did agree to serve at my pleasure, did you not? So perhaps, if your diligence to your duties impresses me, I shall invite you to my stateroom once again. Perhaps we shall discuss poetry, and I shall demonstrate for you how the Scots have taken your people's language and improved upon it tenfold. I tell you, lad, you haven't experienced poetry until you've been enchanted by the ballads of the highlands." Brodie grinned, and James allowed a small half-smile as he finished his second glass of whisky. He still had so many questions – was it truly safe for a British merchant vessel to sail to Port-au-Prince? What cargo could be so lucrative as to warrant the risk? Why had Brodie taken such a special interest in him? And yet he knew he could scarcely ask such brazen questions of the mercurial captain - not if he didn't desire a flogging, or to lose his position among the crew and end up right back on Tortuga - and so he nodded briskly and stood to leave.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Captain, but Mr. Riggins has asked me to see to the main mast, and I should not tarry any longer." With a cordial nod, James turned to the door of the stateroom and prepared to leave. The whisky had burned through his blood with a warming fire and he found himself craving a bottle of rum, a craving he hoped to abate with a day of breathing in the fresh sea breeze blowing through the topsails.

"Mr. Norrington?" He turned, hand on the doorknob, to regard Brodie, who hoisted his whisky glass in a toast, smiling that enigmatic smile. "Welcome aboard the _Sagitta_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saint-Domingue was the original French name for the colony that is, of course, today known as Haiti. The French took control of the western portion of the island of Hispaniola from the Spanish in 1697, and the colony was known as Saint-Domingue until a slave rebellion overthrew the French colonial government and established the independent nation of Haiti in 1804.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued readership! Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	7. The Fixed Stars

There was nothing, James reflected as he climbed down from the rigging, eyes squinted tight against the glare of the setting sun, as refreshing and invigorating as a cool sea breeze. Even in these few days since pulling up anchor and setting sail from Tortuga, James felt reborn – he had forgotten how thoroughly a deep lungful of salty sea air could heal what ailed him, and his malaise of the previous week was a receding memory, replaced, if not wholly cured, by the contentment he felt at pursuing his true life's calling on the open seas.

Which was not to say he was entirely content. Brodie, like most captains, watered down the rum to make it last, and the daily rations of grog were a poor substitute for the strong distilled spirits to which James had become accustomed on Tortuga. It was in the morning in particular that he felt the loss of his daily bottle of rum most keenly; the rest of the crew had learned to give him a wide berth until he had swallowed his morning's grog, consumed a stale biscuit or two, and emerged from below decks, lest they be caught in the wake of his menacing ill-temper. Simple Pete, in particular, had made the unenviable mistake of greeting James one morning with a wide grin and a bellowed salutation as James had emerged, head throbbing and bleary-eyed, from his hammock, and had been rewarded for his cheer by a sharp cuff across the brow.

"For Christ's sake, keep your bloody voice down and that stupid smirk off your face, you thrice-buggered idiot!" James had snarled, his ordinarily caustic wit dulled by the aches that pervaded every nook and cranny of his body, a combination of his need for drink and the awkward contortions he was forced to make to accommodate his tall, broad frame into a hammock made for a man at least a foot shorter than he. Simple Pete, suitably cowed, had let James be in the morning after that (though he noticed that the simpleton still tried to sit as close to him as possible when the crew dined, drank, and carried on at night, much to his eternal consternation).

It was a new experience for him, living in the forecastle – even as a young boy midshipman, he'd been entitled to bunk in the cabins aft of the deck with the other midshipmen, and, of course, had earned his own private cabin once he'd passed his lieutenancy exam and become a rated officer. But aboard the _Sagitta_ , he slept, ate, and lived with the rest of the crew, an experience that, though it lacked the amenities to which he'd been accustomed in the Navy, was not entirely without its benefits. James knew some captains were stricter about gambling and drinking below decks than others (he himself had been a fairly strict disciplinarian when he had captained ships of the line in the Navy, wanting to instil in his crew a notion that they must always be ready for action while at sea), but Brodie had been true to his word – he had no rules for what the men did below decks when they were not working, so long as they did not fight or cause any sort of disruption or mischief. And as it so happened, James was a fair hand at cards and games of chance, and he took every opportunity he could to divest his less perspicacious crewmates of their rations of grog, for which he was willing to wager a fair few shillings (knowing he was more likely than not to emerge with all his coin and a spare bit of rum besides).

And so it was again tonight, after he'd descended from the topsail and down to the crew's quarters belowdecks, where the ship's cook had managed to fix up a pot of stew and the men were digging in eagerly, a swell of loud and friendly conversation filling the air as the men ate, drank, and played cards. One man, a deckhand named Jenkins, could play the fiddle, and was performing an impromptu session as he perched lightly atop barrels of dry goods, head bowed low over his instrument in a reverie of concentration.

James found a free seat at a small battered table in the corner across from the fiddler, where he joined Riggins, Pete, and two other new hands, Richard Crosby and Sam Wells, who could both be reliably counted on to gamble away their grog to James's benefit. Simple Pete beamed gaily at him, and James suppressed an irritated growl as he focused instead on Riggins' affable grin.

"Evening, Mr. Norrington," Riggins said, ladling a generous helping of stew onto James's pewter plate. "I hope you're hungry – cook decided to treat us to a beef stew made from the stores tonight. Well, leastwise, he says it's beef." James looked at the vaguely unappetizing slop on his plate, shrugged, and dug in with a hearty forkful.

"I'm always hungry," James growled, and it was true – as an officer, he'd never wanted for food aboard his Navy ships, and in Tortuga, he at least had had coin enough for Crusty's supper special most nights, however dubiously edible it might have been. But rations were lean, he'd discovered, when a man was a mere seaman, and he'd gone to sleep more than once crammed into his hammock with a still-rumbling stomach. This was the first time aboard the _Sagitta_ that the men had been served meat, and he was grateful for it. "The cook could have prepared the stew with bilge rats and I'm not sure I'd mind altogether much."

Riggins and the other men laughed, the jest doing nothing to put them off their appetite – an iron stomach being an occupational requirement for a sailor. "Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Norrington, I'm not so sure he didn't. I know what a good side of beef tastes like, and this ain't it." Riggins shovelled a forkful of stew into his mouth and shrugged. "But it's still the best I've eaten in weeks, wherever it came from."

James helped himself to another serving of the stew (which, though not delectable by any definition, was not altogether terrible, and was a drastic improvement over hardtack and wormy biscuits), feeling sated for the first time since he'd set off from Tortuga. After the men had piled the supper dishes away, James settled back into his chair as Wells drew a tattered deck of cards from his pocket.

"Fancy a game of whist, Norrington?" Wells said, shuffling the cards nimbly between his fingers. "Maybe care to wager a few coins if you dare? I'm feeling lucky tonight, I am."

James grinned and withdrew six pence from his pocket, sliding the coin across the table. There was a significant disparity between Wells' perception of his "luck" and reality, which boded well for James. Wells spied the coin greedily and reached for his evening's share of grog, from which he'd abstained – he found gambling much more irresistible than drink, and, being perpetually short of coin, needed something of value to wager. Crosby, too, joined in, placing a twopence piece on the table, much to the consternation of James – what good was winning coin on a ship, where a man couldn't spend it on rum or women?

"We need a fourth," James said, looking to the tawny-haired quartermaster. "Care to join us, Mr. Riggins?"

"I'm no good for gambling, Mr. Norrington," Riggins groused good-naturedly, shaking his massive head. "Not since I lost half a good fortune in a dockside hovel in Bridgetown, no sir."

"Well, that sounds like quite the tale," James replied with an easy grin – he could nearly taste Wells' grog, weak as it was, but the promise of drink along with a full stomach put him in a rare good mood. "But I truly must insist you join our game – you wouldn't want the men to mutiny because they couldn't find a fourth for whist, would you?"

Riggins frowned in mock reproach. "Best not to be saying such things, even in jest, Mr. Norrington," he said. "But so be it, I'll join your game. But I won't go over eight pence, so if my luck goes poorly you'll be having to find another partner once I'm played out."

They divided into partners – James ended up with Riggins, which was just as well, since he wanted Wells' grog and could not care less about the others' coin – and James reclined easily while Wells divvied up the hands.

"So tell me how a man loses 'half a good fortune' in a Bridgetown hovel, Mr. Riggins," James said as he casually apprised his hand. It was a fair hand, but not a great one – but no matter, if Wells played as poorly as he usually did.

Riggins made an exasperated noise, as if suffering the injustice of his loss all over again. "Ah, 'twas years ago, in my ill-spent youth. I had just been paid by my captain and was full of piss and vinegar, and decided I wanted to double my wages the easy way. I wasn't half bad at cards, you know. But that cocky little scofflaw – Rider or some such was his name – was better, and he picked me out for a mark as soon as I set foot in the tavern. Talked me into wagering everything I had and beat me every hand." Riggins shook his head ruefully. "I'll swear to the Lord above he was cheating somehow, though I couldn't prove it. But at any rate, I frittered away all that coin to nothing and I haven't played a game of chance since." Riggins looked at his cards and cast a wry glance up at James. "Least until you roped me in tonight."

"Well, it's not as if I can ask Pete to join, is it?" James said, casting a wary glare at Simple Pete, who had wandered over to Jenkins the fiddler and sat, entranced, at his feet. "I can't relieve old Sam here of his grog if I don't have a partner." He smirked, and Wells shot an indignant glare across the table at James. James returned his glare with a grin, and turned back to Riggins. "Perhaps if you are not amenable, I could invite Mr. Kurtz?"

The men around the table – Riggins included – grimaced at the thought. A week aboard the _Sagitta_ had passed so far, and James had yet to hear Kurtz utter a word, nor was the hulking boatswain ever seen belowdecks with the rest of the men, not even at mealtime.

"Now there's a jest you shouldn't be making," Riggins said uncomfortably. "I've never had any personal problems with Mr. Kurtz, myself, but he's not exactly what you'd call a friendly sort." James suppressed a sarcastic snigger – that was, to say the least, an understatement. He still hadn't seen the man crack the vaguest hint of a smile.

"I seen Hinks sneakin' around earlier," Wells said, _sotto voce_. "Probably Kurtz never comes down from the deck at all and has his little lackey bring him his grub. That way he can turn that evil eye on the poor sods what're above decks after lights out." Hinks was the boatswain's mate, whose sole job aboard the ship was to report to Kurtz, to be the eyes and ears for the big man whenever he was not around. He was a weaselly little man with a pinched, greedy face, and James had taken an instant disliking to him.

"Aye, well, a word to the wise," Riggins said carefully, as if debating whether to allow these new shipmates into his confidence. "Kurtz is just as mean as he looks, so best for you all to mind him as you would the captain himself. And don't be discountin' Hinks, neither. He's Kurtz's mate for a reason – because Kurtz can trust him, and because he's got a fair sizeable mean streak himself. You'd all do well to give both of them a wide berth and a generous amount of respect."

"Don't worry on that account none, mate," Wells said. "I don't plan on even lookin' in his general direction if I can help it. Gives me the heebies, he does. Makes you wonder why the cap'n keeps him around."

"That's exactly why the captain keeps him around," James replied. "To keep rabble like you in line." He laughed as Wells responded with a scowl and an obscene hand gesture.

"But what about the captain's old lady?" Crosby observed suddenly. "If I had a wife, I sure wouldn't want her around no man like that."

Three heads turned in surprise towards the ordinarily quiet Crosby. "The captain's wife is aboard the ship?" James asked, incredulous. He'd been aboard the ship for a week – had met with Captain Brodie personally, and been to the captain's stateroom, even – and this was the first he'd heard that a woman – the captain's wife, no less – was aboard the ship.

Riggins looked acutely uncomfortable as the three new men turned to him for confirmation. "Aye, but you lot aren't supposed to know," he said, directing a pointed look at Crosby, who shrugged his shoulders innocently.

"I just heard some of the old hands talking, I swear," Crosby said. "Something about whether they'd see Mrs. Brodie disembark at Port-au-Prince this time, like they'd never actually seen her before."

"Aye, because they haven't," Riggins said firmly. "Mrs. Brodie is a very delicate woman, or so the cap'n says. Gets seasick, she does, and doesn't like to be around strange men. So she stays down in the cap'n's quarters. That's why the cap'n doesn't say anything to the crew – he's afraid that one of you tars, deep in your cups and longing to see a glimpse of a womanly form after months at sea, might try and find her, talk to her, or worse. So he doesn't tell no one she's aboard, lest temptation get the better of you. Only me and Kurtz know – and now you lot, so if you know what's good for you you'll keep it that way!" Riggins looked uncomfortable to be chastising the men, and his eyes were round and wide and almost pleading, as if begging the men to understand that he wasn't cross with them, that he only told them these things for their own good.

Wells and Crosby furrowed their brows, seemingly content with Riggins' explanation; but James felt the gears in his mind turning, agitated and deep in thought. He recalled the captain mentioning a wife when he spoke to the men from the quarterdeck on that first day aboard the _Sagitta_ , but why keep her presence such a secret? Sailors could be a lusty sort, it was true, but something about the explanation seemed off to James.

"If Mrs. Brodie is so beset by seasickness, then why does she sail with the captain?" he asked Riggins. "Most sailors' wives live ashore. A difficult separation, to be sure, but if the lady is ill-suited for the sea…?" He allowed his speculation to trail off, but Riggins only shrugged helplessly in reply.

"To be honest, I can't say. I've never actually met Mrs. Brodie myself. Neither has Mr. Kurtz, to my understanding," Riggins said. "The cap'n says it's because she misses him too fierce to be left behind, and he feels the same. I suppose love must be strong enough to overcome a lack of sea legs, at least for the cap'n and his missus."

James felt his lip curl ever so slightly. When he'd been a commodore in the Royal Navy and on top of the world – when he'd wanted to marry Elizabeth Swann – he'd imagined just that: taking her with him on his voyages and living with her in his stately cabin aboard the _Dauntless_. Mrs. Brodie's presence was, in a way, yet another reminder of everything he had lost. He felt a swell of resentment rise up within him and reached for his own untouched bottle of grog.

"Rank hath its privileges," James said acerbically. "But as the comfort of a woman is at present denied to we mere seamen, I suggest we return our attentions to the indulgences we can enjoy." Taking a long pull of his grog, he fixed Wells with an indulgent smile. "I am particularly anticipating the extra ration of rum that Sam seems so intent to give away."

Wells flung an incensed oath at James, and the men, determined not to dwell on the unpleasantness of Kurtz the boatswain or the mystery of Mrs. Brodie, threw themselves wholly into their game of cards. James's anticipation proved well-founded; Wells' luck deserted him as usual and by the time the men had decided to call it a night, he had earned both Wells' and Crosby's rations of grog and a handful of coin, which he had given over to Riggins for his share, choosing to keep the rum for himself.

"Next time, Norrington! 'Twas just a bad night for me, that's all," Wells promised as he pocketed his cards and headed for his hammock, and James smirked his agreement – if Wells was so bound and determined to give him rum, who was he to complain?

"It appears we make a good team, Mr. Riggins," James said, uncorking Wells' bottle of grog and taking a swig. "I'd be honoured to allow you to help me divest those poor sods of their drink any time."

"I told you I don't intend to make a habit of gambling, and I meant it," Riggins said seriously. "But I can't deny it was a pleasant way to wile away the hours. Just don't get too deep into your cups that you miss the morning bell. I'd hate to see any misfortune come your way."

"Don't worry," James said, uncertain whether to be touched or irritated at the quartermaster's kindly paternal concern. "I survived on Tortuga for long enough to know how to handle my drink." And so, bidding the other man a good night, James navigated his way through the forecastle to ascend the ladder topside, unwilling as yet to subject himself to the discomfort of his too-small hammock, and wishing to enjoy his rum in the fresh sea air, away from the stuffy reek of sweaty men that pervaded the hold below.

As he emerged topside, he first scoured the deck for Kurtz – it was not forbidden for men to be above decks when they were not working, but he knew Riggins' advice to avoid attracting the surly boatswain's attention was sound, and he wished to steer clear of any encounter with the man. Spying Kurtz leaning against the foremast with his burly arms crossed, James made his way quickly across the starboard deck, making his way for his usual spot against the starboard side by the mizzenmast halyards, where he could lean against the railing and enjoy the solitude and quiet with relatively few distractions.

The night was calm and the sea quiet, and James reclined against the railing, drink in hand, and pondered the magnificent scattering of stars that graced the ink-black sky. He loved being topside on a perfect clear night such as this; the stars were a mariner's oldest and truest friend, fixed for ever in the firmament, their unchanging, unyielding permanence steering many a sailor back on course. He spied the constellation for which the _Sagitta_ was named, a small and unremarkable grouping of stars in the shape of an arrow, loosed by Hercules, hurtling forth to slay the demigod's foes. Their ancient presence was a comfort to him, and he wondered idly whether he would ever find his own star, to guide his restless, wayward soul back on course after everything had gone so terribly wrong.

He had just finished his last bottle of grog and was feeling the warming euphoria of the drink making its way through his blood when he first heard it. At first he thought it must have been a particularly sharp breeze blowing through the sails, and he shook his head, pleasantly muddled by the rum, to clear out the cobwebs that might be affecting the clarity of his thought. But then he heard it again, and he was quite certain that it was not the wind through the sails producing such a winsome melody.

He cast his eyes to the sails to see if perhaps the sound came from a sailor, spending a lonely night atop the crow's nest. He was surprised to spy the tall lean form of Captain Brodie, who stood dimly silhouetted against the top of the mainmast, uniquely identifiable by the long coat that billowed out behind him. Perhaps James was not alone in his desire to enjoy the comforting solitude of the stars. But then again, James did not have the warmth of a woman to share his bed with, unlike the captain.

There, again, the keening cry came to his ears; it seemed to him to be haunting and plaintive, sorrowful in a way, and he became aware that it was a woman's voice, singing into the night. A woman's voice – was he so drunk that he was hearing a siren calling to him from across the waves, beckoning him to his doom? But there it was again, and no – it was most definitely a woman's voice, issuing from somewhere beneath him. Could this be Brodie's mysterious wife, who was so reclusive that the captain permitted no mention of her to the men at all? Why would such a timid, fearful woman announce her presence so clearly – or was it only clear to James, who stood on the aft deck where no man would be ordinarily working late at night? Did she hope her husband would hear her mournful cries and retire at once to their bedchamber to keep his frail and seasick wife company through the wave-tossed night?

Later, James would not be able to say exactly what had spurred him. He supposed that it must have been curiosity, at least in part, his interest having been piqued earlier in the night by Riggins' tales of the captain's unseen wife. If he were being honest with himself, he must also account for the stirring he felt in his blood to be near a woman again, his ache having gone unsated since he had partaken of the comforts of Josephine the whore on Tortuga some days before. And, of course, he was certain he could not have been so bold, so foolish, had he not been thoroughly in the grips of three bottles of grog. But all those things taken together tipped the scales against the rational, sensible decision – which was to leave well enough alone, pretend he had heard nothing, and return to the forecastle to his uncomfortable hammock – and so, casting a furtive eye towards Brodie in the crow's nest and Kurtz at the foremast to ensure that neither were paying him any mind, he descended carefully into the forbidden lower aft deck, where the captain's cabin waited with its mysterious and alluring siren within.

He crossed through the narrow, tight quarters quietly, past Brodie's stateroom, and paused at what must have been the captain's cabin. The keening song was clearly coming from within, and at this proximity he could hear the voice clear as a bell, and the beauty and clarity of it made him ache with a familiar need. But that was not what he was here for, he reminded himself sternly. (Then why _was_ he here? – his treacherous thoughts countered.) But regardless of the purpose for his visit, he could resist the sweet siren's voice no longer, and, with a gentle rap on the hatch to announce his presence, he pushed the door open slowly.

Though the woman's voice had enticed him below with its alluring sweetness, he nevertheless found himself utterly unprepared for the stark beauty that greeted him as he entered the cabin. A lissom young woman stood before him, hair cascading down her back in dark wavy tresses, her statuesque form garbed in a gauzy nightgown that clung tantalizingly to her curves. Her skin was porcelain in the pale moonlight, and as she turned to regard her intruder, he could not help but admire the delicacy of her features and the red fullness of her lips, even as her countenance registered a medley of shock, startle, and fright. Immediately he raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture before she could cry out in fear.

"Please, do not be frightened," he said hastily as she stammered backwards into the bulkhead. "I mean you no harm, I promise." Her eyes, dark and doe-like in the silvery light, were wide and afraid. With a belatedness of clarity that could only be blamed on the rum, he realized how he must seem to her – a large, strange man who had intruded unwanted into her bedchamber and who yet insisted she had nothing to fear. His shoulders sagging with the realization, he dropped his hands and held his palms open to her, hoping to reassure her that he truly did not have ill intentions. "It is just that I heard you singing, and I found the melody so entrancing that I simply had to make the acquaintance of the fair creature responsible. I do hope you will forgive my terrible lack of manners and rude intrusion into your privacy."

His words seemed to assuage her fear somewhat; her posture relaxed ever so slightly, and her expression underwent a subtle metamorphosis from distressed alarm to suspicious apprehension. James felt his mouth go dry and a tightness catch hold in his throat; she was beautiful, so very beautiful, but now that he was down here with her, he realized the incredible folly he'd made. She was the captain's wife, for God's sake! If he frightened her too greatly, if she screamed, if Brodie caught him down here…

"You shouldn't be here." Her first words to him echoed his own present thoughts, and they came carried to him in a lyrical Gaelic brogue, similar to Brodie's – but where Brodie's accent was rough-hewn with a Scottish burr, Mrs. Brodie's voice was all music and grace, and he guessed that she hailed from Ireland.

"You shouldn't be here," she repeated, with more urgency. "If he finds you – if you're caught – you don't know what he'll do to you!" The suspicion writ across her visage was replaced yet again, this time by a panicked insistence that seemed to James to be directed towards him, rather than at him. "You must leave now! Go on! Get gone with you!"

"But…" James stammered in response. He didn't know what he'd expected to happen, what he'd wanted her to say, but being dismissed so quickly and summarily surely hadn't been it. What _had_ he wanted? To charm her, flatter her with flowery compliments regarding her gift for song? To press his lips to hers and steal a forbidden kiss from those ruby lips? To lie with her, right underneath the nose of her husband, his captain? "Mrs. Brodie, I do apologize. I had no wish to alarm you. I…" He faltered as he tried to explain his presence to her, when in truth he could barely justify it to himself.

"I only wished to meet you, my lady. I had no inkling that you were aboard the ship until this evening, and I was struck by how lonely you must be, locked in this cabin for the endless days and weeks. And once I heard your graceful song in the night, I knew I must behold you at once. But if my presence displeases you, I shall take my leave." None of it was untrue, but he was nevertheless struck by how insincere he must sound, how much he was attempting to cover his carnal intentions with base flattery. Which was itself not entirely untrue, though he certainly had no intention of imposing himself where he was not desired. Swallowing thickly, he managed a courteous nod to Mrs. Brodie, and turned to depart.

"You are a strange and brave man, to call upon me in defiance of your captain's orders." Her voice stilled him, and he turned back to her with a curious hope. Her countenance had shifted yet again, and in place of the panic he now saw her regarding him with an intensely inquisitive gaze.

"In truth, it was not the captain who forbade my presence here," he said. "He made no mention of you at all, nor made any warnings to avoid your company. But I heard – "

"Heard about the captain's mysterious bride, elusive as a spectre, so fragile and delicate that she may never emerge nor be seen by any man?" She bestowed upon him an unmistakably wry smile, and he felt a warmth suffuse him – the entire travail had been worth it, if only to be privy, for just a few moments, to that wondrous smile.

"Something like that," he admitted, feeling shy and awkward as a schoolboy. He suppressed his own wry grin. He'd long ago lost count of the women he'd bedded, and he marvelled that any lady could still bring him to feel the bashful inelegance of infatuation he'd last felt all those years ago, in Port Royal –

_No_ , he told his mind firmly as thoughts of Elizabeth threatened to intrude and spoil the enchantment. He would not allow her to ruin this moment, as she'd ruined so much else that had been right and good for him.

Perhaps his internal conflict had been apparent, written across his features; or perhaps Mrs. Brodie was uniquely perceptive. "You came to me because you thought I must be lonely," she mused, recalling his earlier words. "And yet I think it is you who are the lonely one, my handsome stranger. Lonely and searching for something, though you know not what. Perhaps you thought you might find it here?"

James stood transfixed, unsure how to respond to this strange creature who regarded him now with an aloof – yet unmistakable – kindness, and who had seemed to see right through the mask he'd painstakingly constructed for himself during his years of exile: the beard, the rum, the devil-may-care manner.

"I don't know what I thought I'd find," he replied softly, feeling a complicated melange of emotions swirling through him – curiosity, attraction, lust, affinity, and perhaps even a touch of the gentleness he'd last exhibited to the woman he'd loved so long ago. "But I am glad, nevertheless, that I found you."

She smiled at him then, a true, warm smile, and he returned her smile fully and without reservation. But as fleeting as the sun, consumed by clouds scudding across the sky, so her smile disappeared, to be replaced once more by the nervous urgency he'd seen not minutes before.

"I misapprehended you," she said, her voice strained with a tension he wished he could soothe. "I feared you were the kind of man my husband has always warned about, a lusty sailor intent on despoiling my honour." James flushed, hoping that his carnal imaginings of her were sufficiently removed from such ill intent as to exclude him from that disreputable breed of "lusty sailors" of which she spoke.

"But nevertheless, you must leave me at once," she said, all traces of warmth gone from her voice as she fixed him with a firm and unmoving look. "If my husband finds you down here, you shall suffer tremendously. And – " she broke off abruptly.

"I find I do not wish such a fate for you," she finished, quietly and to his surprise. James marvelled at the odd creature before him, undeniable in her beauty, a true enigma in her nature. She seemed, truly, to like him, but he did not know why, nor why she so feared for her safety that she remained locked in the captain's cabin, unable to enjoy the sea breeze or the sun or the stars but for the half-glimpses of the world beyond that she could spy through the small porthole. In truth, he had come to see her to sate his curiosity, but, upon being dismissed by her, found he was left with far more questions than answers.

"I thank you for your kindness," he said sincerely, bowing his head to her in the genteel fashion that had been a part and parcel of the social graces of his old life. "And I will respect your wishes. Good night, Mrs. Brodie."

He turned to leave yet again, and yet again, her voice stilled him.

"Niamh."

He turned back to her, her silhouette framed by the porthole, a vision in the moonlight. "I'm sorry?" he said, brows furrowed in confusion.

"My name," she replied. "You may call me Niamh."

The name was strange to him, doubtless an artefact of the Irish language, but it rolled from her tongue with a lyrical beauty that was altogether fitting.

"Very well, Niamh," he said. "You may call me James."

She smiled beatifically at him. "You are unlike most men I have met, James. There is a fire within you. Perhaps it smoulders so lowly that even you have forgotten, but it burns still. Perhaps one day you shall remember to rekindle your fire, James. And now I must bid you good night."

There was so much he still wanted to ask her – why did she insist on staying below the decks, when she did not seem nearly as delicate or fragile as he'd been led to believe? Why did she insist upon following Brodie in his adventures if she clearly found shipboard life to be stifling and restrictive? And why was she showing him – a man who had intruded most crudely upon her solitude with, truthfully, less than pure intentions – such kindness and open consideration? And what was this mysticism to do with his 'inner fire' and his 'loneliness' and his 'search for something he could not describe'? He knew the Irish could be superstitious to a fault; was that the whole of it, or was there something more, something about him that had inspired her musings?

He wanted to ask all of these things, and yet he knew he had intruded too long on her already, and he knew he had been dismissed, and so he merely bowed his head in another mannerly nod.

"Good night, Niamh," he said, and slipped out the hatch. He thought he saw her smiling as he pulled the hatch slowly closed behind him.

He was careful, when he ascended the ladder, to make certain that the attentions of the scant few crewmembers on deck – especially Brodie and Kurtz – were directed elsewhere before he scrambled quickly out of the aft hold and back to his familiar drinking spot. Testing his three bottles of grog to see if there was a drop left, he found himself disappointed, and, pocketing the empty bottles, he made his way back to the forecastle, his mind a maelstrom of questions, doubts, and pondered curiosities. Descending the ladder, he made his way through the galley to the crew's quarters, where his shipmates tossed and turned and slept in their swinging hammocks. Finding his own berth, he divested himself of his overcoat and boots, stacking the boots beneath his hammock and hanging the coat on a jutting peg near his feet, before climbing in.

The hammock was, as always, acutely uncomfortable, and James was forced, as always, to fold his tall frame into an unwieldy contortion in order to fit. He wished for his old bed back in his room in the Mermaid's Tail, which, though shabby and ill-made, nevertheless permitted him to stretch out to his full length. Wishing he had one more bottle of rum to dull his thoughts and mute the ache of the cramped hammock, James fell into a fitful sleep, thinking of the mysterious Niamh Brodie and her soft, delicate features, and wishing he were the fortunate man who could spend the night curled up in a real bed with such a woman in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "tars," which Riggins uses to refer to James and the other men, comes from "Jack Tar," which was slang for a British sailor (particularly a Navy seaman, though it could be used broadly for any English sailor). Thanks for reading and, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!


	8. Absolution

The day, when it broke, was as ordinary and unremarkable as any other. The sun crested over the waves warm and bright, and James, from his perch on the mainmast, could tell the weather would be clear and pleasant with an easy breeze – nearly perfect for sailing. He rubbed his forearm wearily against his face, wiping the sweat from his brow and wishing he'd gotten more sleep. He and some of the other men had had a late night of it, playing cards and swapping tales and drinking grog into the wee hours. James had learned that Riggins was the son of a sailor from Whitby ("'Course I would be, what with this name. Destined for the sea I was, so Pa always used to say," the ruddy-faced man had added as an aside). Wells, after cagily evading the inquiries of the others for most of the night, finally admitted that he'd come to the West Indies to make his fortune after his release from a six-month sentence in a debtor's prison in London, a revelation which James found thoroughly underwhelming, given the man's obvious propensity to land himself in arrears through feckless gambling. Simple Pete had not offered much insight into his past – evidently he'd been a street urchin in a port city (he wasn't exactly sure which one) who had been taken in as a sort of mascot by a seafaring crew, who had taught the simple-minded lad basic shipboard duties in exchange for his board.

Of his own past, James was reticent and unforthcoming, sharing just enough to keep the other men from badgering him for more. He had confided that he had, in fact, served in the Royal Navy, and that he had left the service, though he did not go into any of the details of the storm or his subsequent scapegoating by the Admiralty. Riggins, who was cleverer than he sometimes seemed, adduced that James had probably been an officer because of his "gentlemanly speech and ways," to which James had merely grinned and replied that his life, of late, had hardly been that of a gentleman. Of the pirates – and Elizabeth – he said nothing, and though he could tell that Riggins at least suspected there was more to his story, the men were happy enough to let him be, especially once he assured a wide-eyed Simple Pete that he had not, in fact, been drummed out for mutiny, piracy, or any other capital offence.

"Do you think I'd be here telling you this tale if I'd been convicted of mutiny, you great fool? I would have been stripped, flogged, and hanged from the nearest yardarm." But even his insults to Simple Pete were, on the whole, meant in good jest – though he still found the simpleton's doe-eyed attention irksome, the man's good-natured loyalty was, in its own way, agreeable.

Service aboard the _Sagitta_ , in general, had proved, somewhat to James's surprise, to be rather agreeable. It was not the Navy and never would be, but the crew – Kurtz and Hinks excepted – were, if not openly friendly, then at least amicably polite. He had encountered none of the sullen side-eyed glances he'd so frequently endured by the pirates on Tortuga, who hated him for the reputation he'd so well-earned in his past life as the "scourge of piracy." If James was not exactly happy, he was at the least not as miserable as he'd been on Tortuga.

None of which, at the moment, made up for his lack of sleep and rum. Having consumed all his grog as he wiled away the hours late last night, he'd had none to ease his throbbing head this morning, and so, after sullenly gnawing on a rock-hard biscuit and silencing Simple Pete with a doom-laden glare, he'd come up topside, hoping the sea breeze would eventually clear away his lingering drink-deprived aches.

He'd realized quickly that the day would be a hot one, and so, stripping himself to the waist, he'd ascended the main mast, adjusting the rigging on the sails as needed, and allowed the sun's warmth and the fresh sea air to seep into his skin. The work on the topsail was rigorous and required all of his strength, and James felt sweat beading across his brow and trickling in a steady stream down his chest and back as he pulled the lines with all his might, plying the sails against the steady wind that cooled the sweat to a pleasant chill against his skin. But though he found thus some relief from the unremitting heat of the midday Caribbean sun, he found yet no respite for his weariness, which had been compounded by his laborious exertions.

In his exhaustion, he found his mind drifting again and again to things that troubled him – namely, Elizabeth, but also, to a lesser extent, Niamh. He knew he was drawn to her, though he knew equally well that such an inclination was suicidal – he had seen enough of Brodie's mercurial nature to know that the captain would not likely be forgiving of another man's dalliance with his wife. He knew he did not love her, not like he'd loved Elizabeth (the admission of the latter sentiment still sending a roiling jet of anger through his blood), but he was fascinated by her nonetheless. Given the supreme foolishness of his attraction to Niamh, James almost believed it would be better for him to fixate his unrequited longings on Elizabeth – she, after all, had finally allowed him to have her, and if he had to choose between cuckolding Captain Brodie or that insufferable whelp Will Turner, well now – that made his decision all the easier.

But the fact of the matter was that Niamh was here, and Elizabeth was not. Also, Niamh had, despite having every logical reason to the contrary, treated him with kindness and understanding, and her cryptic statements to him had only served to intrigue him further. The fact that she was stunningly gorgeous was also not insignificant, he was compelled to admit.

Grunting with the effort of tugging the ropes into place, James blinked as beads of sweat dripped into his eyes. Securing the line at last, he wiped his palm across his brow, even as a sharp wind gusseted through the topsail, cooling his bare chest at once. He cast his gaze across the horizon – the perfect day of the morning was gone, clouds having scudded across the sky, blotting out the sun along the way. The wind seemed to be picking up as well, and the clouds to the south – large, towering, and a forbidding grey – sent a creeping thrill of apprehension down his spine. It was not rare for storms to blow up at sea, of course, and every veteran sailor knew how to weather them, but there was something about those clouds, something ominous and familiar, and he felt the beginnings of dread in his gut.

"Ho there, Norrington!"

He looked below him to see the grizzled face of a man named Perkins suspended below him on the mast.

"Riggins sent me up here to relieve you – says you've been up there since dawn! What with this storm a'brewin', he wanted a fresh pair of hands up here on the mast." Perkins was an affable and burly man, not as tall as James but just as broad, and James reckoned he was right. He'd been rubbing his face as much to stay awake as to wipe the sweat away, and he could do with some chow and a drink.

"All right, Perkins," he said by way of greeting and acquiescence, swinging himself ably down the ladder and swapping places with Perkins. It wasn't until his feet hit the deck again that he realized just how weary he truly was. Well then, nothing for it but a bite of grub, a bottle of grog, and off to the hammock with him – with any luck he'd be asleep and the storm would blow over through the night, and he wouldn't have to relive the nightmare all over again. He only hoped cook had come up with something hearty tonight – he wasn't in the mood for hardtack.

"Hope you don't mind I called you down," Riggins said, greeting him on the forecastle. "Looks like it's fixing to get nasty out here, and if you got as little sleep as I did, then you need some rest before we hit the worst of it."

"I just hope cook decided to dip into our thinning reserves of meat again tonight," James groused as the men descended down the ladder below decks. "I don't think I can bear another night of eating stale biscuits."

As it turned out, cook had scrounged up some dried beef, which, along with the hardtack, made for a parching meal, but it was meat and James could not complain. Washing it down with his night's grog, James, feeling quite sleepy now that his belly was full, decided to call it an early night, and headed to his hammock to get some well-needed rest.

He fell into a restive sleep as the waves, bolder and coarser, rocked the ship with increasing abandon. He could hear the _Sagitta_ creaking and groaning in protest as the sea buffeted her hull, and James knew that the men up top would be in for a rough night of it. Squeezing his eyes shut tight against the memories of the storm that had ruined his career, he tried to will himself to sleep, as if to do so would will away the storm which threatened outside. Focusing on the rhythmic swaying of his hammock, James felt his heart hammering against his chest as the memories swarmed through his mind – the cries of the men as the waves crashed over the deck, sweeping dozens to their doom overboard; the heart-rending _crack_ of the foremast as it splintered apart under the relentless assault of wind and water, crashing down onto the deck, foretelling the fate of the _Dauntless_ as she was torn asunder; all because of him, because in his haste to close in on Sparrow and Turner, he'd misjudged the angle of the storm, misjudged its power, misjudged everything…

A crashing of boots against wood was his only warning before a booming voice – James's sluggish brain supplied it as Riggins' – bellowed through the hold.

"Hurricane, lads! Hurricane a blowin' up from the headwind! All hands on deck! We need all men on deck!"

Instantly the men were out of their hammocks, the air abuzz with conversation as they scurried about, grabbing trousers and shirts and rubbing the sleep from their eyes before heading up top. James felt the pounding in his chest quicken twofold, as the terrible sense that he had already lived this tragedy sank over him like a shroud. Was this God's own punishment for surviving the hurricane that had killed his men and wrecked his ship? Death, furious at being denied its prize, grasping out for the man who had eluded it years before?

James was beset by trembling shakes; he felt responsible for it all. His presence, here, had put the _Sagitta_ and all the men aboard her in danger, and fate would have its retribution, and these men would die for his sins, as the men aboard the _Dauntless_ – good men, the King's men, family men – had before. Perhaps if he jumped overboard now – perhaps if he drowned himself in the storm, the bloodlust of the gods would be sated, and the storm would spare the rest of the crew. He felt a keening sense of agony rising in his chest, a terrible panic, and a phantom fist gripped tight his heart as he ran unsteady hands over his face, feeling the bristle of his beard and the sunworn skin of his forehead. He cursed that he had ever survived the wreck of the _Dauntless_. For what – so that he could become a drunken, whoring wretch on Tortuga? So that he could take Elizabeth Swann's virginity in a last act of spite against his former fiancée and her bastard whelp blacksmith? So that he could get another good crew of sailors killed, innocent casualties of his ill luck?

Something slapped him in the face, hard, and he reeled backwards, shaken by the invisible blow. Blinking his eyes in confusion, he only had time to register a large, meaty paw wrapping itself around his forearm and pulling him close in, and then he was looking into the eyes of a stern Tom Riggins, whose tawny hair was matted down to his forehead, soaked through from the storm.

"Get hold of yourself, man!" Riggins thundered, as unyielding as James had ever seen him. "We need all men topside and ship-shape if we've any hope of weathering this storm! I need you to pull yourself together!"

James stared blankly at the quartermaster. Didn't he understand, the fool? This was all James's fault, all of it, and how could he possibly _help_? The last time he'd had any authority in a storm, men had died. So very many men. No, it would be better for them all if he threw himself overboard now, placated Neptune's wrath, before they all were in for it. He opened his mouth to tell Riggins just that, but Riggins clearly did not wish to dialogue; he shook James like a ragdoll and pushed him back into the bulkhead.

"Now you listen here! This crew needs you right now, and you'll be doing your duty like the rest of us!" Riggins leaned back a bit, a look that might have been disappointment settling over his features. "I never thought to see the day that you were unmanned, Mr. Norrington."

James bristled at once at the deadly accusation. "I am not unmanned!" he protested hotly, a fierce heat coursing through his blood. "Don't you see, goddamn it? I can't help you! I can't help anyone! You wanted to know why I left the Navy?" It was all coming out in a great rush, and James could not stop the tide of words even if he'd wanted to. "Because I lost my ship to a storm such as this! And not just any ship! The flagship of His Majesty's entire Caribbean fleet! Lost and wrecked and most of her crew dead because of me! I am no use to anyone in a storm, Mr. Riggins, not if you don't want to die like all of my lads!" He felt a strange heat on his face, felt his heart hammering, but the words would not cease. "They died because of me. My boys. I won't see you lot die because of me, too. I won't. I'll throw myself overboard, perhaps the sea will spare you her vengeance – "

"You'll do no such thing!" The disappointment in Riggins' face was gone, replaced by something that looked infuriatingly to James like paternal concern. "I'm sorry about your ship and your crew, Mr. Norrington. Truly I am. And I'm sorry for thinking you a coward. But you can't bring them back through dying, man!"

"I know that, dammit!" James was furious and confused – why didn't Riggins understand how perilous he was to have around, what terrible luck, how he would bring them all to doom? "But I can help you, I can save you – "

"You can help us by going topside and putting yourself on the ropes!" Riggins roared. "We need every able-bodied man for it! And none of us have been through a 'cane, to boot! Heard about 'em, sure, but sailed through one, nay! We're rudderless here, Mr. Norrington! The only chance we've got is if every man does his part!" Riggins again gave him a compassionate look. "You're a Navy man. You understand duty more than most of this lot does. I need you to do your duty now. Don't make me ask again."

James was floundering in his despair and confusion. In the end, it might have been the pleading look in Riggins' eyes. Or it might have been his words, cutting at last through the malaise that fogged James's mind. But, after a pause, he nodded slowly.

Riggins, his face a mask of relief, clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man," he said. "Meet me topside – we need as many men as we can on the sails!"

James ran his still-trembling hands over his burning face, and was surprised to find them coated in moisture. He looked around wildly through the abandoned forecastle hold, suddenly diverted by the desire to look for his shirt. He shook his head firmly – no more diversions, no more distractions. His demon was bellowing above decks at this very moment, crying for him to come out and meet his fate. And he would not meet it like a craven eunuch, cowering in the ship's hold, as unmanned as Riggins had accused him of being. Forgetting about his shirt, James pushed himself up the ladder and onto the deck and into the midst of the storm.

* * *

The wind howled, a terrible banshee wail that cut through the air like a fey blade and ripped its grasping clawed fingers through the sails, threatening to tear them asunder. The deck pitched and rolled as the ship was tossed about in the tumultuous waves, water crashing over the rails and drenching the men to the bone. The rain flensed their skin, as vicious as any boatswain's flog, driven nearly straight by the gusting winds. James was nearly knocked to his feet by the raw, savage force of the storm, recovering only as he grasped the deck rail. He saw men scurrying about, buffeted and driven by the wind but somehow still able to move, and he could hear snatches of bellowed commands through the ever-keening gale. He saw Riggins standing at the foremast, and the man wore a palpable look of relief as he saw James emerge from the forecastle.

"Norrington!" Riggins bellowed at him, shouting to be heard over the storm. "We've got a fierce headwind, coming at us dead-on! It's threatening to rip apart the sails!"

"You're sailing into the headwind?" James, now that he was topside and in the midst of the storm, felt an odd sort of calm settling over him. The memories of the _Dauntless_ were still omnipresent in his mind – the collapsing foremast, the men scattered from the deck like so many tin soldiers, the final, heartrending shattering of her hull in half as the sea claimed her – but, viewed through the lens of a new storm, they felt strangely distant, as though seen, in the words of the Bible he rarely read, through a glass darkly. He remembered the _Dauntless_ moving against the headwinds of the storm, having turned south to complete the pursuit of the _Pearl_ , and thus meeting her doom, and –

"NO!" James thundered, grabbing Riggins and shaking him hard. Riggins' eyes were wide in alarm, and James could see that his faith in him had flagged, and that he had thought James come unmanned again, and so he quickly added, "We mustn't sail into the headwind! That will be the doom of us all!"

"What are you on about?" Riggins looked bewilderedly at James. "Of course we're sailing into the headwind – we're making for Port-au-Prince!"

James shook his head furiously, water spraying from his wind-swept hair like a great shaggy dog shaking itself dry. "That's when the _Dauntless_ met her doom! We had been weathering the storm well enough – we sailed her through a calm patch and believed the worst of it to be over – but when we emerged, the winds were far fiercer and it wasn't long before she was wrecked!"

Riggins shook his massive, tawny head. "I've heard about these calm spots, but if what you say is true – we'd need to head away from the storm, we'd have to turn the ship around! I'm not certain we can turn her full about in these winds, Mr. Norrington!"

"We needn't turn her full about!" James felt his blood quickening, the memories of the early stages of the storm – when the _Dauntless_ was, though certainly under siege, nevertheless holding firm – coming back to him in rapid succession. "We need only make it across the centre to the other side of the storm! The storm's meeting us from the south – if we turn starboard and sail west, we'll be out of the worst of it!"

"Then we'll be caught in the crosswinds! The sails will be ripped to tatters!"

As if punctuating Riggins' words, the spritsail at the fore tore asunder, the screams of the men in response lost quickly in the cacophony of the rending sailcloth and the shrieking wind. The sail flapped madly about like some demon-haunted marionette before tearing away entirely, nearly knocking down two of the foremast sailors before being spirited away into the grey by the hurricane gale.

James shook his head. "The sails will certainly be ripped to tatters if we stay on course! No, we must turn for starboard and ride it out on the other side – it's our only chance!"

Riggins stared hard at James before giving him a firm, decisive nod. "Aye, so be it. I told you your experience would help us, Mr. Norrington."

"My experience may yet get us all killed," James said bitterly. "But I've been here before, and we will most certainly die if we maintain course into the headwind."

"Then it isn't me you need be telling this to, Mr. Norrington!" Riggins pointed aft, to the quarterdeck and the helm. "'Tis the captain!"

But James was already gone, making his way across the battered deck, shivering in the unexpected cold of the wind and the rain. It was just as well, he thought idly, that he had forgotten his shirt – it as likely would have been ripped from his body as not, in these winds. He steadied himself along the railing as he wiped his soaking hair from his eyes, though that was a losing venture. Approaching the quarterdeck, he saw Brodie standing at the helm.

The captain had neglected to wear his burgundy greatcoat – perhaps not wanting to ruin it in the storm? James certainly hoped such vain considerations would not be futile, and that they would not all be at the bottom of the sea before the night was over. He heard the Scot bellowing commands as he maintained a steady hold on the wheel, and, ignoring all shipboard protocol, James bounded onto the quarterdeck to stand before the captain. He could see Kurtz as he passed by, and felt the fearsome boatswain's glare, but at the moment he cared not a whit.

"Captain Brodie!" James shouted urgently. "Captain, we have to turn the ship to starboard! It's the only way we'll survive the storm!"

Brodie suddenly appeared aware that someone had intruded onto his domain, and his eyes narrowed imperceptibly before he frowned at the substance of James's words, then shook his head.

"Are you mad, man? We're driving into the storm – we'll be out of it sooner if we keep on course! If we turn, we'll be riding the edges of it, taking the crosswinds, and we'll be sunk for certain!"

James shook his head, now firmly certain that he had gleaned the only way for the _Sagitta_ to survive. "I lost the _Dauntless_ driving into the headwind of a storm just like this one," he insisted. "And you'll lose the _Sagitta_ if you keep going on course. I beg you, captain – I've sailed through a hurricane, and this is the only way we're getting out of it!"

Brodie squinted at him through the blinding haze of rain, his face the familiar mask of inscrutability that James found maddening even when time was not of the essence. But he was in no mood to play games, not when all their lives were at stake.

"Captain, we have to turn now, dammit! Or else the _Sagitta_ is lost!"

Brodie clearly did not like being ordered about on his own ship, and James sensed Kurtz stirring, attentive to the feud going on behind him. James thought suddenly of Niamh – she must still be below decks, and utterly terrified. The thought of her dying, drowned in a storm because of her husband's stubbornness, tore at James's heart, and he set himself resolutely, unafraid of the wrath of either Brodie or his mighty boatswain.

"You can have me flogged all you like if we make it through, sir, but if you will not turn the ship to starboard, then I will."

Brodie's eyes flashed in anger, but the seriousness of James's bearing must have impressed itself upon him, because he nodded briskly.

"All crew, full starboard! Furl the sails for a starboard turn and take you care of the winds! Full starboard!"

The cry was echoed down the line, and James saw the men looking at each other confusedly even as they hastened to their new orders. Perhaps they were used to obeying the seemingly strange whims of Captain Brodie, but at any rate, they were all following the new orders, to a man.

"Now, Mr. Norrington," Brodie said in a clipped tone that brooked no refusal. "You will haul yourself up the mainmast and keep alert in the crow's nest for any changes in the wind. If you feel that we have made an error in changing course, you will come down and tell me immediately. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Captain."

"Good. I am trusting this ship to your discretion and experience, Mr. Norrington. If you are wrong, then God help us all." Brodie made it clear that the conversation was over, and James nodded, turning towards the mainmast and ignoring the glaring, hulking form of Kurtz as he traversed his way back up the deck.

Climbing the mainmast was damn near suicidal in this wind, but James kept himself low and close to the mast, feeling the wind shearing painfully over the exposed skin of his back as he ascended the ropes. The crow's nest was a perilous place to be in a storm – the wind would come at him savage and unopposed by the sails or the hull or any other material impediment. As he hauled himself into the small, fragile stand, he felt the wind tearing at his skin and hair, felt the rain lacing into his flesh, stinging his eyes, and all else around him, all activity below, was utterly drowned out by the screaming banshee wail of the wind.

It was just him and the storm now. The _Sagitta_ had disappeared beneath him, and he felt again in his heart the devastating loss of the _Dauntless_ , the sinking despair he felt as he clung desperately to a piece of her shattered hull, bobbing helplessly in the sea, watching the rest of his proud ship go down to her watery grave. He felt a wild madness seize him, and, as the storm laid siege to his body, doing its best to break him against its might, he threw out his arms, staggering back into the side of the crow's nest with the force of the wind.

"Have you come to take me at last?" he roared, his words stripped from his mouth by the howling winds, leaving him breathless. But he would not be so easily cowed, not this time.

"Go on, then! Have at me! Take me if you mean to, you son of a bitch!" He was almost gleeful in his mania. "Break me across the waves and throw me into the sea, if you can, you godforsaken bastard!"

And so he swore and cursed at the storm, his rage matching its own, a wild man, as raw and elemental as the storm that battered him. But as they sailed, the ship turning slowly and ponderously to starboard, rocked and buffeted by the unforgiving winds, they gradually noticed the fury of the storm abating. The men began to cheer, but James heard none of it, nor would he have joined in if he had. He knew that hurricanes had a deceptive patch of calm at the centre, just enough to fool a novice sailor that he had weathered the storm and all was well. But all was not entirely well, not yet, and so he bellowed down the mast that the men should keep to it and brace for more winds to come; and sure enough, after some time, the winds picked up again, the waves tossed the ship about like a toy in a child's bathtub, and the keening wind blotted all other sound, all other sensation, from James's world, and he was left alone again with his mortal enemy.

But now he was triumphant, grinning, his madman's cursing taking a victorious tone, because he knew he had won. The storm raged, but it raged with less intensity; it battered the ship, but not as roughly as before; it blew rain across the deck and across the bodies of the soaked, bedraggled men, but it did not sting as much now. As the _Sagitta_ sailed and the winds gusted down and the rain slowed to a manageable pace, James began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. He was dizzy, giddy, drunk with glee. The _Sagitta_ was going to survive. The men were going to survive. And he, James, had been right. He felt light, as though floating on the air.

But then he thought again about the men of the _Dauntless_ , and his glee fled at once. It was a victory, but a dearly bought one; the experience that had enabled him to save the _Sagitta_ had been purchased at the lives of the crew of the _Dauntless_. He closed his eyes, this time unafraid to let the tears come, unseen up in the crow's nest, and he held his lost boys in his heart again, one more time.

"I am sorry I failed you," he said softly into the dying wind. "I will make certain your sacrifice was worth the cost. Now and for the rest of my life. I swear it."

He opened his eyes, and was startled to see a seabird straight across from him, resting on the rim of the crow's nest, regarding him with a jauntily-cocked head. It stayed there like that, mere inches from him, for several moments; then, with a keening cry, it lifted off, winging into the wind, another survivor of the storm. The bird disappeared into the grey horizon, taking with it James's solemn vow. A great peace settled over him, and he raised his hand to gently brush away the tears before descending the mast carefully down to the deck.

"There's the man of the hour!" Riggins was there at once, clapping James across the back like a schoolmaster taking delight in a stellar young pupil. "You were right about the storm, mate, and you done saved all our hides. We can't never thank you enough, Mr. Norrington." James saw Wells, and Crosby, and Simple Pete, all grinning at him like the happy, lucky fools they were (Pete grinning wider than the rest of them combined).

"Aye, lad. I can't say I'm fond of being ordered about on my own ship, but we'd have been done for sure without you." Brodie emerged from the crowd, clad again in his resplendent greatcoat. "Though I seem to recall you offering to be flogged if we made it through."

The crew's smiles faltered, unsure whether Brodie could truly mean to punish the man who'd just saved them all from shipwreck, and even James stilled himself against the chance that Brodie was not jesting. But, of course, he was, and the Scot laughed a great, loud laugh, and joined Riggins in clapping James on the back.

"But I think that's one suggestion of yours I'll forego, what do you say, Mr. Norrington?" James grinned, feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the camaraderie surrounding him, and, truthfully, feeling very tired now that all the excitement had passed. He desperately wanted to go below to his hammock and sleep the rest of the day away. But Brodie still had a hand clasped on his shoulder, and, before pulling away, the captain leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper: "I told you you'd find your fresh start aboard the _Sagitta_. She has a way of bringing out the best in people."

James nodded, for once agreeing with Brodie without reservation. "Aye, that she does."

* * *

James adjusted the mirror, propped against a bowl on one of the tables in the crew's mess, and dipped the razor into the dish of water. He'd secured some soap from the ship's stores and had lathered up his face, for the first time in weeks. He always shaved whenever his beard threatened to grow too long, but he'd never cared when it grew back. In time, he'd come to realize that he was hiding behind it; it was another means to differentiate him, the Tortuga drunkard who caroused and whored and cared little for anything in the world, from the man he'd once been, the well-kept ship-shape officer who'd shaved dutifully every morning and maintained his uniform with the utmost care.

But now, it was time for the beard to go, and this time for good. He was done hiding behind it – was done hiding behind all of it. Which was not to say that he'd ever be that other man again – he couldn't, even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't. He didn't imagine he'd give up drinking rum, or enjoying the pleasure of women. But James Norrington – Commodore James Norrington – was no longer dead to him. Commodore Norrington had lost his ship and failed his men. But he had also avenged them upon the storm that had taken their lives, had ensured that their sacrifice hadn't been in vain. And so James decided that it was time to stop hiding from his past.

He drew the razor straight across the line of his jaw, watching the bits of fur falling into the water dish below. He scraped delicately and with a sure hand (he'd made sure to attend to this task before drinking any rum for the day) until the beard was gone, its remnants lying scattered across the table and in the water dish. Scraping the stray hair into the dish, James viewed his reflection with the curious regard of a stranger. He rubbed at his jaw, his freshly-shaven cheeks feeling strange and foreign to his hands after months of bearded stubble. He had no illusions that anything else about his life would change, but it was a small gesture, and one he felt entitled to make after feeling the overwhelming sense of – whatever it was he'd felt in the crow's nest, when that curious seabird had alighted next to him.

Absolution – that was it. He felt, at last, absolved of his guilt for what had happened to the _Dauntless_ , and in so doing, he'd given himself permission to carry on with his life. He grinned, his smile looking strange to him without any whiskers surrounding it. Well, losing the beard was a start. He wrinkled his nose, realizing he would have to do something about his ragged clothes, which had certainly seen better days, and of course he needed a bath desperately – but that would have to be had whenever they made port in Saint-Domingue in a few days' time.

Meanwhile, James snapped his razor back into place and stood, stretching mightily, feeling free and buoyant. Feeling lucky. Perhaps Wells would be interested in a game of cards. James rather enjoyed the thought of celebrating his newfound life by drinking a well-earned bottle of rum or three.


	9. The Old Pretender

_God damn it all_ , James thought with no small measure of irritation, _how I loathe the bloody French._

He'd only been to Paris once and had found it vile, the smell of sewage rank in the streets, doxies and whores brazenly cooing at him on every street corner. Port-au-Prince smelled a bit better, no doubt due to the cleansing effects of the sea breeze, but the whores here were, if anything, even more slatternly than their Parisian counterparts. Not, James was forced to admit, that that was _entirely_ a bad thing – a few nights in the company of loose women would not be so bad at all after the enforced celibacy of shipboard life. He'd enjoyed his first night in port quite thoroughly – the bath had been hot and invigorating, and the pretty little strumpet who'd shared it with him had been just what he'd needed to take his mind off of other things. He'd left her a silver coin – the French liked silver, didn't they? Even if it _was_ of English mint – and departed early, while she still slumbered naked and warm beneath the tousled sheets.

Cheerful whores aside, James found little to recommend the French, a notion which was thoroughly reinforced as he stood impatiently in the clothier's parlour, hoping to replace his shabby clothes. He surveyed the too-tight breeches and frilly shirts, the elaborately embroidered waistcoats and the gleaming buckled shoes, until at last the shop's proprietor, an airy wisp of a man with a powdered blue bouffant wig, glided out to greet him. The man's nose wrinkled at once upon sighting James's rather worse-for-wear outfit. The shopkeeper greeted him, and James fortunately spoke sufficient French to understand the polite yet lukewarm salutation.

"Yes," James replied in French, aware of how atrocious his accent must sound to the merchant's ears. "I… I would like new clothes." He hoped he'd gotten that right, and hadn't inadvertently asked for something altogether different or scandalous.

James hadn't thought that it was possible for the man's nose to wrinkle even _more_ , but apparently he'd been wrong. He was beginning to wonder what obscenity he'd inadvertently blurted out when the man replied, in brusque, heavily accented English: "Ah, no wonder you are so _gauche_! You are English!" James opened his mouth to retort, but the man brushed his words away as if waving off a fly. "No need to explain, _monsieur_ , we will have you dressed as a gentleman as quick as you please! I have in my stock only the very latest trends from Paris, all of the highest quality! We will have you looking no more like a gutter tramp in no time at all!"

James felt his face burning. _Gutter tramp_? His clothes might be scruffy, and a bit tattered, but they weren't _that_ bad. Not after he'd washed them out in the washbasin last night, at any rate.

"Well, sir, you see, I am a sailor," he began slowly, trying his best to be diplomatic. "I was merely hoping for something a little less… ostentatious?"

"Ostentatious? _Ostentatious_? You dare insult my wares?" So much for diplomacy; the little man was abuzz with indignation, his cheeks flushing bright. "Then I have nothing to help you, _monsieur_! If you wish to go about looking as a filthy English swine then be my guest!" He made a great show of turning around in a huff, petulantly refusing to acknowledge James's continued presence.

"Swine?" James gathered himself upright angrily and pulled his threadbare clothes proudly about himself. "Well at least I won't be strutting about like a great prancing popinjay in these ludicrous poncey rags!" He banged the door open with a flourish and, with an angry swipe of his hand, knocked a bewigged mannequin to the floor as he strode righteously from the parlour. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was the shopkeeper's indignant screech, and he grinned wickedly to himself. Thank God his own days of wearing that insufferable wig were over.

Having thus been forcefully reminded of his distaste for most things French, James rather hoped Captain Brodie would be able to finish his business in Saint-Domingue quickly so they could cast off for a friendlier port. Brodie had been enigmatic about the nature of said business, demurring when asked any questions and alluding only to "meetings" he needed to conduct with his "business associates." James highly suspected that Brodie was engaged in smuggling of some sort – rum-running, perhaps, or wine-smuggling. He'd seen no obvious evidence of contraband in the ship's hold, but then again, most of the cargo had already been crated up for delivery to its port of final destination, and James had no real way of knowing what was inside. Nor, he was forced to admit, did he care overly much; when he'd been in the Navy, apprehending rum-runners had been one of his crucial duties, but now that a smuggler (or suspected smuggler, he amended; he had no evidence that Brodie's business was illicit, after all) was paying his wages, he found himself less concerned with the intricacies of duty tariffs and taxation.

_Is this how pirates begin their journey to lawlessness, then? First making excuses for smuggling, then robbery, then kidnapping and murder? All justified in the name of earning coin?_ James shook his head, dismissing the thoughts. There was quite a gulf between smuggling rum and attacking a defenceless merchant vessel to kidnap its crew and plunder its goods. And it wasn't as though he hadn't done unsavoury things to survive already. Even so, the memory of the _Dauntless_ crew flitted through his mind once more, accompanied by the nagging sensation that he had been granted a second chance – a second chance that was surely not meant to be wasted on living a life of petty seafaring crime.

_Stop it. You can't do anything to honour their memory without coin, you great idiot._ James had noticed that, ever since the hurricane, the old nagging voice in his head – the voice he'd attributed to the Commodore – had begun recurring with increasing frequency. It puzzled him even as it vexed him, but he was determined to waste no more time entertaining it. He had a job to do, and as he hired the horse and cart from the grubby little man in the market square, he pushed all thoughts of law, and duty, and honour, from his mind – his only responsibility, for the time being, was to himself and to the _Sagitta_. As the cart tumbled across the busy main street and onto the rickety planks of the docks, James motioned for the driver to pull to a stop.

"Here. This is my ship. I'll be just a moment loading the goods," he told the driver as he hopped off the cart and ambled up the dock to the _Sagitta_ 's gangway. Wells, Crosby, and Simple Pete lolled against a set of crates assembled on the deck.

"You lot, stop being such useless layabouts and help me load up these crates!" James called out to them. Wells responded with an obscene gesture and the men began to haul the crates down the gangway and onto the cart.

"These sure is heavy! I wonder what's inside!" Simple Pete huffed as he heaved a crate into the back of the wagon.

"Who bloody knows? The cap'n never tells us his affairs, and I know better'n to ask! He pays well, 's all I know! The rest of it ain't none of my business!" Wells responded.

"You're a wise man, Sam," James replied as Crosby loaded the last crate onto the wagon. "Now you lads go enjoy yourselves while I deliver these to the captain's business partner. Perhaps I'll join you for a drink later." The men wasted no time heeding James's advice, heading straight for a dilapidated tavern just on the outer edge of the docks, which looked to be the first stop in port for many a sailor disembarking at Port-au-Prince. James watched them depart without envy – there would be time, and coin, for drink later, once he completed this job.

Captain Brodie, just before they'd made port, had pulled James aside and asked him to deliver a few crates of goods to a trusted friend and business partner, one Monsieur Devereaux, who lived in a lovely mansion in the wealthier district of Port-au-Prince. Brodie would have enjoyed the opportunity to call upon his old friend himself, but regrettably, he would be far too occupied with other business to have time to visit Devereaux. But in light of his close friendship with the Frenchman, he would not entrust delivery of the goods to just anyone, and (Brodie had then pulled James a bit closer, and gave him a conspiratorial wink) James had thoroughly proven his trustworthiness with his actions during the hurricane. Besides, Brodie had assured him that a larger share of the crew's gold awaited him if he was willing to perform this favour. James had readily agreed; it was a simple enough errand, and certainly worthy any amount of coin Brodie wished to pay him. Even if the crates – stamped, rather improbably, as "dry goods" – did contain illicit contraband, or the payment for same.

And so, as the cart pulled up before a resplendent mansion, James decided that this might just be the easiest gold he'd ever earned. All he had to do was sign the crates over to Monsieur Devereaux, obtain the bill of sale, and be on his way – and then the day was his to do with as he wished. Climbing down from the cart, he instructed the driver to wait while he approached the large and intricately-carved wooden doors of the mansion. He lifted the elaborate bronze knocker and banged it home, and, in a matter of moments, the door opened to reveal a wary serving maid, who regarded James and his shabby coat with more than a little trepidation.

"Ah, good day," James said in French, managing a smile. "I have a delivery for a Monsieur Devereaux. I'm told he lives here?"

"Monsieur… Devereaux?" the maid stammered. "You must mean the captain?"

"Captain?" James furrowed his brows, rereading the bill of sale. _For M. Devereaux – 7 crates as promised. AB._ No mention of any rank. "Well, I must admit, I am not acquainted with Monsieur – with the captain myself. I – "

"It's all right, Lisette, I will handle our visitor." A husky feminine voice interrupted his ramblings, and James looked up at once from the bill of sale to find a voluptuous and exceedingly well-dressed woman of aristocratic bearing (and exceptional beauty) regarding him bemusedly.

"But madame, this man does not know – "

"Go _on_ , Lisette! I said shoo!" With a casual flick of her wrist, she dismissed the nervous maid, and turned to James with a coquettish grin.

"Good afternoon, sir," she purred, in English. James returned her smile with his own. Now he certainly felt on more familiar ground.

"Good afternoon, madame," he said smoothly. "I hate to trouble you, but I must arrange a delivery for Monsieur Devereaux."

"Ah yes, my _dear_ husband." Her suddenly acerbic tone implied that she was less than pleased with that particular circumstance. "Yes, well, he is out God knows where, probably with ze whores again. How I suffer so!" The woman – Madame Devereaux – was clearly accustomed to playing the long-suffering wife, and she threw her arm theatrically against her face in despair. James stared at her in utter bewilderment. He was used to direct, bawdy talk from whores, of course, but from wealthy, respectable women?

"Yes, well, Madame Devereaux, I am sorry to hear of your marital troubles, but I really must arrange for this delivery to his estate. If you could perhaps summon for his steward – "

" _Zut alors_! I am being so rude!" she exclaimed suddenly. She leaned back into the door and screeched at an unseen servant, bellowing at him to attend to the delivery at once and to secure it in the wine cellar (thus bolstering James's suspicions that Brodie was, in fact, trafficking in smuggled contraband).

"Ah yes, my husband's steward is a lazy swine, but he is good enough, no?" She had returned her attention to James and was eyeing him with an interest that was certainly less than platonic. "I shall have him sign your bill and you may be on your way, but, oh, look at you, you poor thing!" She reached out and ran a hand, lightly, down James's arm. Despite himself – despite the complete and utter absurdity of the situation – James felt a twinge of desire thrumming through his blood at her touch. "You must be so tired from ze journey! I must insist you come inside and have some tea!"

James could think of a thousand good reasons to refuse, to beggar off and claim that he was busy, that he could not stay, that he had other errands to run; and only one reason (and a very poor one at that) to accept her invitation.

"Tea sounds positively delightful, Madame Devereaux," he said.

"Please," she said, her voice husky and her countenance now decidedly non-platonic, "you must call me Marie."

Madame Devereaux – Marie – escorted him into what appeared to be a sitting room. It was small and cozy, and sported a plush and very comfortable-looking chaise lounge, as well as couple of chairs and a small table. A tall and sturdy armoire sat in one corner opposite a small pianoforte. A servant swept into the room and set a pot of tea and two saucers carefully onto the small table before bowing deeply and exiting the room as silently as he'd entered. James sat, and as Madame Devereaux took the other chair, he took the opportunity to truly study her. She _was_ beautiful – her auburn hair was pinned into an elaborate mess of curls atop her head, leaving only stray tendrils to float about her face, and her lips were plump and juicy and – was it James's imagination, or had she just flitted her tongue between them?

"I must thank you once again for your hospitality, Madame – "

"Marie, you must call me Marie!" she exclaimed. "All day long it is 'Madame this' and 'Madame that.' I tire of it." She took the pot of tea, poured a cup for herself and James, and settled back into the chair to regard him. "But tell me about yourself, yes? I must know your name! You are English, no? I have always enjoyed ze English, though perhaps merely to spite my husband!" She tittered wildly in delight, her eyes never leaving his.

James eyed her warily, feeling increasingly like a fly being enticed ever so surely to the spider's web. But, he had to admit, she was _very_ tempting spider.

"My name is James," he said, sipping at his tea. "I am afraid I'm not a very remarkable man. I am merely a sailor on a merchant vessel. My captain is an acquaintance of your husband's, and wished to arrange a personal delivery of his goods. But Captain Brodie was unable to call upon you himself, and so sent me in his stead."

Marie's countenance soured visibly at the mention of her husband. "How typical of Jean-Paul to be absent even when expecting a friend. He is always 'busy,' is my husband. Busy with his mistress I suspect!" She sighed dramatically and set her tea cup down with an emphatic clink. "What I fool I was to have married him!"

"Your husband is the fool to keep a mistress when he has such a beautiful wife awaiting him at home," James said smoothly, setting his tea down beside hers. "I daresay if I were married to a woman of such exquisite beauty, I would see no reason to satisfy my needs elsewhere."

In all his years of debauchery on Tortuga, James had bedded many a whore, but (to his knowledge) he had never seduced another man's wife. He had certainly been tempted, most lately by Niamh; but something – perhaps a tattered remnant of his old code of honour – had kept him from crossing that particular line. And knowing that Madame Devereaux was the wife of Brodie's associate – by all appearances, a very wealthy and powerful associate at that – should have been enough to warn him off course.

But perhaps it was the barely-concealed leer of desire with which she regarded him, together with his longing to see if the tavern tales he'd heard of bawdy and promiscuous French wives were true; or perhaps it was even a twinge of pity for a woman who, whatever her moral predilections, had been ill-used by a faithless husband.

"I have always enjoyed ze seamen, you know," she purred, placing her hand atop his and running her thumb sensuously across his fingers. "It is why I married my scoundrel of a husband. But ze French men, they have no time for their wives. And so if he can have his whores, why should I not have ze other sailors, no?" Her hand moved to his leg, where it began to caress him in a tortuous journey towards his thigh. And yet, as pleasurable as all of this undoubtedly was…

"Why me?" he managed at last, his voice strangled with lust as her hand crept closer and closer to the evidence of his desire. "There are surely other sailors in Port-au-Prince – I have nothing to offer you – "

"Nothing?" she cooed as her wandering hand came to rest on the ill-concealed bulge in his breeches. "Oh, but that's not true, _mon cher_. I want ze big English cock." She squeezed him, for emphasis, and any lingering resistance he'd harboured crumbled at once.

James was uncertain whether he had risen from the chair first, or she, but he soon found himself pressed against her, his lips assaulting hers with a primal force as she tugged eagerly at his coat, shrugging it off his shoulders. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back onto the chaise lounge, and as she lay there, wanton and vulgar and eager for him – for _him_ , not because she was a whore who expected coin, but because she was a woman who desired _him_ – James found himself uncharacteristically filled with a buoyant excitement, as if he were a seventeen year old lad again carrying on with a pretty maid who'd batted eyes at him.

He fumbled hurriedly with the buttons of his breeches, eager to rid himself of the barrier that kept him from diving at once into her sweet heat. He groaned raggedly as he filled her, and soon discovered – from Madame Devereaux's full-throated scream of pleasure – that all the tales he'd heard about licentious French wives were true.

Indeed, Madame Devereaux might have been the most vocal woman to whom he'd ever made love. She shrieked and moaned and cried out with wild abandon, and he found the effect of her exhortations to be as a riding crop to a stallion, spurring him on to a feverish pace. He gripped her hips tightly in his hands as he bore down on her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist as she urged him on harder, faster, deeper. Her cries grew even louder and more boisterous until she threw her head back in an expression of primal, unadulterated bliss and screamed so loudly James was certain it must have been audible on the street outside. Her enthusiasm was too much for him to bear, and with a ragged gasp and a shudder, he released his seed inside her, collapsing against the chaise lounge in boneless euphoria, propped up only by his trembling arms. He panted breathlessly for air and felt beads of sweat dripping down his face and neck and under the collar of his shirt – it had been some time since he'd ravaged a woman this _thoroughly_ , at least since Elizabeth –

But that particular line of thought was squelched with a sudden and vicious finality by the reverberation of wooden doors slamming open, followed by a heated exchange of words between one extraordinarily incensed man and a series of pleading, apologetically subservient interlocutors, which could only mean –

"Oh no!" Madame Devereaux gasped, still splayed wantonly beneath James on the lounge. "My husband is home! You must hide! Quickly! Quickly!" James pulled away from her at once, the pleasant afterglow of his release dissipating instantly. He hurriedly buttoned his breeches, his eyes casting anxiously about the room for somewhere to hide as the raging man grew nearer, the shouted French words becoming clearer and more discernible to his ears:

"Please, Captain, you must not intrude – the Madame is not feeling so well – "

"She feels well enough to take another man between her filthy legs right in my own parlour! And you should think twice about who pays your wages! It is not my whore wife who merits your loyalty! You think about that, stupid little bitch!"

"Please, sir, I meant no disrespect – "

"Shut up!" A loud slapping sound echoed from the corridor beyond, accompanied by a yelp of pain. James spied the armoire across the room, and he quickly made his way over and shut himself inside just in time for the parlour doors to crash open with an authoritative bang.

"Where is he?" The man was in the room now, and his rage was palpable even to James, who could only see dimly through the crack between the armoire's doors. He willed himself to stay utterly still, though Madame Devereaux's bountiful dresses pressed down on him from both sides, and the lacy, frilly fabric tickled maddeningly at the exposed skin of his neck.

"I don't know who you are talking about," Madame Devereaux replied coldly. "Or what right you have to ask of me such a question when the stink of the brothel clings to you like cod to a fishmonger!"

"Do not play games with me, you faithless harlot! Do you think I did not hear you? Do you think the entirety of Port-au-Prince did not hear you? You have the gall to whore yourself to other men in my own home and then you lie to me?" James saw the man – Captain Devereaux – raise his hand to strike at his wife, but she moved deftly behind the chaise lounge, careful to keep a piece of furniture between herself and her enraged husband. It was clear from her instinctive movements that it was an impulse developed from frequent practice. James felt a bubbling cauldron of rage beginning to simmer within his breast. He could understand the pain of being cuckolded – certainly _he_ of all men could – but men who raised their hands to women were, to his reckoning, the basest of all creatures, their depravity too contemptible for words. James itched to run his blade through the captain's throat, and he slid his hand carefully down his side before remembering, with a belated panic, that he'd left his blade locked away on the _Sagitta_ , having not wanted to court trouble in a foreign colony. He almost laughed out loud at the irony. It seemed that, whether he courted it or not, trouble had a way of finding him with unerring regularity.

"And you have the gall to call your own wife a whore while you have been ploughing your way through all the strumpets on the island? Do not speak to me of whores!" James heard the distinctive sound of spitting, and a roar of fury as Captain Devereaux received a faceful of his wife's contempt.

"Who I bed is none of your business! You are my wife –"

"And who _I_ bed when you are with your sluts is none of _your_ business!" James heard a tinkling of shattered glass and guessed that one of the teacups had just meet its doom, though who threw it at whom he could not clearly see through the small slit in the door. "But since you are so curious I shall tell you! He is a sailor – a dashing sailor, how you used to be before you earned your command and put on such airs!"

Captain Devereaux swore viciously, a creative string of French obscenities that James could not precisely translate. "You fucked a common dock rat? A filthy sea man? He probably gave you the pox, filthy whore! I hope he did, for I shall certainly never share your bed again! Slattern!"

James stiffened in mute outrage. He most certainly did _not_ have the pox! He may have bedded his share of wenches and whores, but a discerning man quickly learned which women to avoid on Tortuga. The pox! Of all the nerve!

"Ha! If any man has the pox it is you, with all your cheap and toothless doxies! But no, dear husband, he was not just a 'common dock rat' – he was a tall, handsome sailor!" James felt some of his outrage bleed away. This sort of talk he could abide. "And – oh yes, the best part – he was an Englishman! And quite a well-endowed Englishman as well! He certainly puts _you_ to shame!" James grinned. Yes, this was very much the sort of talk he could abide.

Madame Devereaux continued ruthlessly. "But I suppose that is why you love your whores so? They care more for the size of your coinpurse than your – ?"

"Enough!" Captain Devereaux bellowed. "You think to have your revenge on me, to fuck a sailor? An English sailor?" James heard the telltale metallic screech of a sword being pulled quickly from a scabbard. "You seem to forget that killing Englishmen is a day's work for me. What is one more?" James saw, through the crack in the door, Captain Devereaux thrust his sword violently into the chaise lounge, sending a riot of feathers wafting into the air. Madame Devereaux screamed in terror as her husband began savagely slashing into the sitting chairs.

"If you will not tell me where your Englishman is, then you leave me no choice but to find him!" Madame Devereaux burst into broken sobs as her husband began hacking furiously at the pianoforte, the severed strings wailing in discordant agony as the instrument keened its death throes. James knew it was only a matter of time before Captain Devereaux made his way to the armoire and thrust the blade home and into his chest. His heart hammered fitfully and his fingers itched for his absent blade. To confront the sword-wielding madman unarmed was suicide, but to stay hidden was an equally certain death, and a coward's death at that. A steady resolve hardened in James's heart, and he pressed his palm against the armoire door, ready to burst out and meet his would-be assailant man to man, but at once, an idea – an utterly mad idea, but an idea nonetheless – occurred to him.

"So sorry about the piano," Captain Devereaux sneered. "Did you play it for your Englishman? Or was he only interested in rutting like a stag? An Englishman! Of all the filthy brutes – "

But whatever else Captain Devereaux had to say about Englishmen was lost as James burst suddenly from the armoire and hurled an armful of Madame Devereaux's dresses into the captain's face. James had locked eyes with the man for the briefest of moments; the captain was small in stature, with a long Gallic nose and haughty, furrowed brows, and as he spied James, his face twisted into an ugly mask of hatred and rage. But then he was buried beneath a mass of dresses, and as he twisted and flounced to free himself from the garments, James cast a remorseful look at the aggrieved Madame Devereaux, a great shame filling his heart for the part he'd played in her terrible circumstances.

"Marie – "

But Madame Devereaux would have none of his pity; she shook her head firmly at him and gestured wildly at the window behind him.

"Get out, you fool! Go now!"

Captain Devereaux's wrathful bellow was muted by the layers of fabric that swathed him like one of the clothier's mannequins, and, at last freeing one arm, he began to hack at the remaining garments with his sword. Reminding himself that he was unarmed and needed to escape before the captain disentangled himself from the dresses, James turned to the window at the rear of the parlour, threw it open, and leapt out onto the street below.

The parlour was on the first floor of the manor, and so James landed hard, but on his feet. He was off at once, tearing through the streets like a madman, determined to put as much distance between himself and Captain Devereaux as he could. James ran pell-mell, heedless of the startled cries of the confused pedestrians who cursed him as he bumped through them in search of the crowded anonymity of the market district.

At last he emerged into the market square, chancing a fleeting look over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit. Four men, all wearing the livery James had noticed among the servants in the Devereaux manor, were trailing behind him, as yet unaware of his exact location – but that would not remain the case for long, unless he got himself out of the square and out of sight. Threading his way through the vendors and merchants, James crossed the square to enter a narrow alley on the opposite side of the market. Taking corners at a whim, he made his way through the labyrinthine warren of passages until he spied a cart filled with rum barrels nestled against the side of a ramshackle inn. At least he seemed to have left the affluent quarter of town behind – though if Captain Devereaux was as familiar with seedy brothels and taverns as his wife had intimated, then the shabby inn likely offered no refuge. He could afford to take no chances; he had no wish to meet his end at the point of a cuckolded husband's blade. Clambering atop the cart, James squeezed himself between the rum barrels and knelt down, confident he was disguised from view.

The delectable scent of the rum wafted across to him through the barrels, and James itched for a bottle, especially in light of his most recent ordeal. He decided that he would remain hidden for another half hour before making his way back to the _Sagitta_. As much as he yearned to enter the tavern for a much-needed drink, he could not be too careful; Captain Devereaux's men were almost certainly still out searching for him. And so, with a silent curse of frustration, James bade himself remain still.

He was not alone for long. James stiffened in alarm as the door to the inn pounded open and a series of voices, raised in agitated conversation, emerged behind him, filtered clearly through the open window of the tavern. Lowering himself slowly so that he was not visible above the side of the cart, James remained still as death, the frenetic pounding of his heart banging a tattoo against his ribcage.

"You told me you'd have the totem, you bloody French sons of whores!"

The words were English, and delivered in a very distinctive Scottish brogue. _What in the bloody hell was Brodie doing here_?

"We do 'have it!' In a manner of speaking. That is to say, we know where you can get it." The second voice also spoke in English, though with a strong French accent. "You are very demanding for one who has far more riding on this little rebellion than we." James frowned. 'Little rebellion?' What was Brodie embroiled in with these Frenchmen?

"I've got nothing riding on this other than the totem _you_ promised me, Frenchie."

"So now you are saying the restoration of your 'rightful king'" – here the Frenchman's voice dripped with palpable disdain – "is of no importance to you?"

James could hear Brodie snort, an exhalation of equal parts irritation and impatience. "Of course it's of importance to me, you fool! But in case you Frogs hadn't noticed, Scotland's sovereignty was bartered off in a devil's bargain to the English nearly twenty years ago. My presence here right now is an act of treason, and I'll be damned if I hang at the English gallows for glory alone. You promised the Totem of Ikenna and I want it. Now."

"You'll have your totem as well as our support to restore James Stuart to the throne, and in so doing free Scotland from England's yoke," the Frenchman snapped. "But do not forget that you have guaranteed us no shortage of support among your Jacobite allies across the West Indies and the Americas. We need them to converge at once if the rebellion is to have any guarantee of success, which means we must have all the pieces in place before any plans can be conceived. I assume you remember the debacle of '15?"

"You know good and bloody well I 'remember' it, and I'll thank you not to taunt me!" Brodie exploded angrily. "The bloody English hanged my father for treason. Treason! There can be no treason when a man fights for his king and country!"

"We agree," the Frenchman said smoothly. "Which is why we trust you'll uphold your end of the deal to secure your allies in the New World and prepare them to move against the German usurper."

"Of course I will, you know I will. There is just the matter – "

"Yes, we know, the totem. We attempted to secure it for you, but before we could obtain possession of the artefact, we learned that it had been purchased by a Dutch trader by the name of Geers Voort from a curiosity shop here in Port-au-Prince. Voort is a well-known and reputable merchant who transacts his business among all the colonies of the West Indies. Our spies have informed us that his next port of call is Bridgetown, where he intends to trade Dutch indigo from Aruba. And as you see, we have not been idle." A clinking sound, as of a bag of coins being lifted, echoed through the window. "Our agent has… shall we say… _instructed_ him to hold the totem for you. You will pay him with this." Certainly a bag of coins, then, which clinked again, no doubt now being transferred from the Frenchman to Brodie.

"So what you're saying is that you've done nothing," Brodie snarled derisively. "You can 'instruct' this Voort to hold onto the totem for me, but you can't relieve him of it yourself and save me the trouble? You're more useless than the half-wit swabbie serving aboard my ship!"

"You will see how 'useless' we are when it comes time to restore your pretender to the throne. Perhaps you should take care to speak more judiciously to your allies." The Frenchman's tone was low and dangerous.

"Then see to it you're as good as your word," Brodie shot back, uncowed.

"Of course," the Frenchman scoffed. "And you see to it that you are prepared to move when we tell you it is time."

"I'd be ready now if you'd given me the damned totem as we'd agreed!" Brodie snarled in agitation. "As it is, now I'll have to sail to Bridgetown and remove it from this Dutch fool's possession. Then I must store it safe away with the rest of my most valued prizes – I certainly don't keep my wealth aboard my ship where any damn fool pirate could seize it if he had a mind to! Once that's settled, I'll make for Charles Town. I've many acquaintances there who are sympathetic to the cause. But you bear in mind that I go to Charles Town only after I have the totem in hand!"

"Yes, your lust for this silly little Negro trinket is quite tedious," the Frenchman retorted. "But do not worry yourself. You shall find that the totem is exactly where and with whom we have said it is. So go quickly and collect your plaything so that we may get onto the real business at hand. I might remind you that France has as much to gain as Scotland from striking at the English crown."

"No one has as much to gain from restoring James Stuart to his rightful place as we Scots do!" Brodie's tone was cold, all sharp and biting steel. "But your assistance is welcomed, provided it is dependable. I do not wish to follow my father to the gallows in the wake of another ill-fated rebellion."

"The fate of this rebellion, whether well or ill, lies entirely with us," the Frenchman said. "Send word when you make sail for Charles Town. One of our agents will meet you there. And then we shall set everything in motion."

"Excellent!" Brodie's voice was at once cheerful and bright, and James wondered if the Frenchman found the Scot's mercurial nature maddening as well. "Then it's settled. I shall send word as soon as I am en route to Charles Town, and soon we shall see Scotland's glory unfurled again! God's grace will shine on our endeavour, gentlemen!"

"Indeed it shall, Captain, indeed it shall." A rustling of movement issued from the room behind James; the scraping of chairs being pushed back and footsteps plodding heavily towards the door. The door to the tavern creaked open and James heard the footfall of men crunching noisily on the dirt and rocks outside. A shadow passed over the cart, and James dared not move, not even to breathe, as the familiar long, thin silhouette of Captain Brodie, bedecked per usual in his resplendent coat, passed by not an arm's breadth in front of him.

James remained there, crouched down and hidden behind the rum barrels, for what felt like hours. The earlier fiasco with the cuckolded Captain Devereaux was utterly forgotten. He'd suspected that Brodie had come to Saint-Domingue, despite the dangers of anchoring a British-flagged ship in a French port, to smuggle lucrative contraband. He'd been wrong. Brodie wasn't a rum-runner. He was a traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This author's note will be a bit of a history lesson, so for those who are not interested in the real life events alluded to in this chapter, feel free to skip, but otherwise, allow me to put on my history professor's hat!* *disclaimer: I am not a real history professor, just an enthusiastic amateur* 
> 
> Those of you familiar with British history will no doubt recognize the events to which Brodie and his French conspirator are referring in this chapter. In the late 17th century, the King of England was James Stuart - aka James II - who was the Catholic son of the executed King Charles I and who had become king upon the death of his brother, Charles II, who had died with no legitimate heirs. The Protestant majority of England feared that James II would defy Parliament and recreate in England an absolutist Catholic monarchy like that of King Louis XIV in France. In 1688, James's Protestant daughter, Mary, who had married William of Orange, a Dutch prince, arrived in England at the head of an invasion fleet at the request of Parliament to depose her father James II. This was known as the Glorious Revolution and ensured the continuity of Protestant monarchs in England, but there were many - especially in Scotland and Ireland - who saw the deposition of James II, who fled into exile in France, as an unlawful usurpation of the crown.
> 
> James II died in 1701, but his son, James Francis Stuart (the would be James III), who would have ascended to the throne in the absence of the Glorious Revolution, claimed the rights to the crown, becoming known in England as "the Old Pretender." However, he had many supporters, known as Jacobites (from the Latin form of James, Jacobus), to whom he was affectionately known as "the king across the water" (a reference to his exile in France). To complicate matters, the Treaty of Union between the Kingdoms of England and Scotland was signed in 1707, creating the United Kingdom of Great Britain - but many Scots believed that England had forced them, because of its superior political, economic, and military power, into acceding to the treaty. The Jacobite rebellions were supported by many anti-Union Scots who believed that restoring James Stuart to the throne would lead also to a restoration of Scottish sovereignty. A failed Jacobite rebellion occurred in 1715 when James Stuart launched a force into Scotland, but due to poor planning, the rebellion soon fizzled and its ringleaders were executed. The British crown had meanwhile passed to a Protestant cousin of the Stuarts, George I, and he would face no other serious threat to his power, though the Jacobite cause did not suffer its ultimate defeat until 1745 at the Battle of Culloden.
> 
> In this story, however, I imagine that perhaps the French, who had in reality been fickle in their support of the Stuart pretenders, were a bit more engaged in their desire to put a Catholic on England's throne, and of course, that Jacobites such as Brodie - who lacked only the means to decisively act - would be colluding with them. It's a bit of an alternate revision of the real history of the 1720s (this story, as you can tell from the clues I placed in this chapter, takes place around 1725), but hell, if there can be sea monsters in PotC, there can be alternative history, too!
> 
> I hope I didn't bore you all to death with that bit of backstory! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated - it really means a lot to me to know that people are reading and (hopefully) enjoying this story, so please please, don't be shy and leave a review! All right, I think that's it - I promise next chapter won't have such a lengthy author's note!


	10. Niamh's Secret

James reclined in his hammock aboard the _Sagitta_ , his head still reeling from the weighty revelations of two days' past. Since his inadvertent discovery of Brodie's treacherous plans, James had spent much time in the solace of his own thoughts, brooding over bottles of rum and stewing over what he'd learned and what, if anything, he could or should do about it.

After emerging from his hiding spot next to the inn, he'd wandered the streets of Port-au-Prince, mindful of the fact that Devereaux's men might still be searching for him. And what of Devereaux? Brodie had described him as a "friend." Did that mean Devereaux was a part of the plot as well? James had gleaned from Madame Devereaux's words that her husband was either a privateer or a captain in the French navy; either way, he would be well-placed to aid a French invasion force, should Brodie's conspiracy ever come to fruition.

James had eventually returned to the ship, which, having had its hurricane-damaged sails and rigging repaired or replaced, had pulled up anchor just that morning. Wells, Crosby, and Simple Pete had been full of good-natured ribbing that he, who had already earned a reputation aboard the _Sagitta_ as the man among them who most enjoyed his drink, had failed to join them in their carousing; he'd accepted their taunts with the expected raucous cheer and intimated that he'd found far lovelier and more feminine company with whom to spend his evening and his coin. Fortunately, he'd also gained a reputation as the man among them who most enjoyed the company of women, and so the men accepted his excuse without question, tossing a few bawdy jokes his way before leaving him be.

But James had, in truth, been far too distracted even for the company of lasses, and even more so for the company of his friends from the ship. He thought about each of them in turn: Riggins, Wells, Crosby, and the others. Were they aware of Brodie's treason, or – worse – were they active party to it? Were they committed Jacobites like their captain, or had Brodie merely offered them a handsome purse to betray their king and country? Or were they innocent of all wrongdoing, as ignorant as he was to their captain's true purpose?

And why, he thought sullenly as he took a long pull from his bottle, should any of it matter a whit to him at all? He'd loyally served His Majesty in the Royal Navy since the age of thirteen, and look where it had gotten him: disgraced, scapegoated, and cast aside, left to wallow in his own miserable filth on the island that God Himself forgot. So Brodie wanted to depose one king and replace him with another. What the devil's difference did it make to him who wore the crown he no longer served?

But even as he took a bitter swig of rum, he knew that he could not abide such musings for long. It was true that perhaps as recently as a month ago he might well not have given a tinker's damn for such lofty ideals as duty, loyalty, or honour; but ever since the hurricane – since that remarkable moment atop the crow's nest when he'd felt the weighty millstone around his neck at last loosen and allow him to slip free of its bonds for the first time in three years – he'd felt a sense that, well, _something_ critical had changed in his life. Purpose, perhaps – that was the best word for it. To what end, he could not yet say, but the thought of returning to Tortuga, to his life as an aimless, shiftless vagabond who did nothing but drink and whore and fight and wait for death to claim him, was unbearable now. And it was true that the Commodore, that other man from that other life, had begun to chime in rather irritatingly often in his thoughts, advising him on the _honourable_ or the _right_ thing to do as opposed to the merely expedient or self-serving. And despite all his simmering resentment at the way he'd been treated by the Admiralty, he could no sooner forswear allegiance to England than he could cut his beating heart from his chest.

"Oh, bugger it," he grumbled, reaching the last drop of his rum and tossing the bottle under his hammock. All these noble inclinations meant piss-all if there was nothing he could do about them. And without knowing the full extent of the conspiracy, nor whom (if anyone) he could trust, piss-all certainly summed up his options at the moment. Muttering a sequence of oaths, he decided that, moping about being of no use, he might as well go and join the others, playing their games and drinking their grog over in the crew's mess. He might even, with the right amount of subtlety and finesse, be able to put out a few feelers about the men's knowledge of their captain's agenda.

"Ho, Norrington! Where've ye been? Been squirreled away all by your lonesome since we sailed from Port-au-Prince, ye have – what's the matter, mate, lost all your coin in a French whorehouse?" Wells' eager taunting provoked a gale of laughter from the other men seated at the table as James sidled up and took a seat across from the grinning gambler.

"Maybe I just wished to escape your constant nattering, Wells," he retorted, earning an appreciable amount of chortles from the rogue's gallery. He slapped a tuppence on the table and motioned for Wells to deal him in. "But I've decided I miss your company after all, you handsome bugger. Or perhaps I just miss your rum. Either way, let's play a hand, shall we?"

Wells cut him in, and soon enough, James had managed to acquire the grog belonging to Wells, Jenkins, and a quiet, smallish man named Polwyn, who'd only tonight worked up the courage to join in on the cards and was likely wishing he hadn't.

"Another night, another bounty. I wonder that you all are still so willing to allow me to sit at your table," James crowed, uncorking one bottle and taking a long, grateful pull.

"It's just a matter of time, Norrington – one of these days your luck will run out, and bugger me if I won't be the one to profit from your misfortune," Wells said, doubtless having experienced no man's misfortune but his own. James shook his head at the man's eternal and ill-founded hope.

"Perhaps you should try your luck at the next port, Wells. The scuttlebutt says fortune did not exactly favour you in Port-au-Prince."

"Aw, bugger you, Norrington," Wells groused. "It's only because I can't understand none of them French bastards. Probably all cheated me and I didn't even know it. I sure's to God hope we're making for an English port this time around."

"As do I," James said, deciding to test the waters. "I've certainly had my fill of foreign nonsense for the year. Nothing sets my teeth on edge faster than being surrounded by the bloody French."

"Here here," Crosby replied lustily. "Thought I was going to go mad around all those froggy blighters."

"Aye," the quiet Polwyn piped in. "I can't say as I understand why the captain took us there. Seems a bit dangerous to be conducting business in a French port, leastwise it does to me."

James felt some of his tension relax, if only minutely. It appeared that most of the other men not only had no love lost for the French – and thus would be highly unlikely to join into a French conspiracy against their own motherland – but they did not even know that the _Sagitta_ was making for Barbados, let alone why. Then again, James hadn't really expected his fellow foremast jacks to know anything about the plot – his true concern was with Kurtz, and Riggins.

James liked Riggins, and nothing he knew about the man would lead him to believe that he was overly political, let alone an avowed traitor neck-deep in an active conspiracy. But James had learned through hard experience that not everyone was as they seemed , and, in the end, he had to admit that he didn't really _know_ Riggins. Riggins was currently seated at a table with Simple Pete and another crewman, and James knew any sort of meaningful discovery would be impossible with Pete slobbering all over his shirtsleeves (though, James was forced to admit with no small touch of irony, Simple Pete was certainly the one man aboard the entire ship of whose loyalty he could be assured). At any rate, any assessment of Riggins's true loyalties would have to be done both privately and judiciously, something that was impossible at the moment.

Deciding to adjourn for the night, James bid the men a good evening and took his rum, stowing it in his coat pockets as he ascended the ladder topside. It was a cool, clear night, and the _Sagitta_ had left Saint-Domingue behind hours ago, and the island had slowly slipped into the horizon until the ship was once again surrounded only by the shimmering blue sea. A skeleton crew manned the sails at this late hour, the calm seas having enticed most of the men below decks to engage in the merriments in which James had just partaken. He would be up with the dawn and knew he should retire to his hammock to claim what rest he could, but he'd spent so long in the damned bunk already that he longed for fresh air to clear his head. Uncorking a fresh bottle of rum, he took a long, slow drink, his thoughts tumbling around inside his head like so many marbles. Despite all his consternation and fretting, no answers offered themselves to his troubled mind – only more questions.

Leaning over the railing, he took a pull on his bottle, and as he was tilting his head to swallow, movement on the foredeck caught his eye. Glancing over, he noticed Hinks shambling over to Kurtz, who stood, arms crossed, like a marble statute, glaring out over the bow. James shook his head and took another drink. Hinks never socialized with the rest of the crew, but nor did he trouble them; however, James could not shake the feeling that the weaselly man was always watching, and that every movement made by any of the men was noticed and reported by Hinks to Kurtz and, possibly, to Captain Brodie himself. James grimaced – if any men aboard the ship were a part of Brodie's conspiracy, he'd be willing to wager a good year's wages that it was those two.

James felt a prick of surprise as a shadow fell across the foredeck, and Brodie's familiar lean form casually strolled up to Kurtz and Hinks, the latter immediately adopting a cringing, deferential posture that made James quirk his mouth in amusement and disgust (having never appreciated such obvious toadying from subordinates when he had been in command of a ship). His interest in the impromptu palaver on the foredeck heightened considerably, though James knew there was no subtle way to move close enough to hear what was being said. The three men clearly knew they were isolated, and would notice – and wonder – at any man who strayed too close to the obviously private discussion. Of course, it might have had nothing at all to do with the Jacobite conspiracy, but a nagging feeling in his gut told James otherwise.

_Well, fat lot of good you can do about it here, standing all the way back by the poop deck_ , he thought sullenly, swilling his rum. If only he'd stayed closer to the forecastle, where perhaps he might have remained inconspicuous –

James started, struck at once with an idea so bold he wondered that he must be mad to even consider it. Now that he knew the truth of Brodie's villainy, the notion of being caught was more dire than ever. And yet, he'd done it before, hadn't he, and lived to tell the tale? And with Brodie and his two cronies deeply absorbed in conversation, this might be his only chance to speak with the one person who was bound to know the truth of Brodie's secrets. James pushed quietly away from the rails and straightened at once, gripped by the firm decisiveness that had once made him such an effective commander. Wasting no more time, he corked his rum, shoved it in his coat pocket, and – glancing back to ensure that Brodie, Hinks, and Kurtz still paid him no heed – quietly but swiftly crept towards the quarterdeck hold and descended the ladder below.

A quiet but firm knock on Brodie's cabin's door was rewarded with silence, and James, his stomach churning with fear, wondered if he had made a fatal error. Perhaps Niamh, frightened of how close they must have come to being caught, had reconsidered her welcoming attitude towards James and would permit no more visits from him; or perhaps she was party to the conspiracy herself, and had only been cordial to him in an attempt to draw him out, either to expose him or to recruit him for her husband's treacherous scheme. She _was_ Irish, after all, and it was no secret that most Irish would prefer a Catholic king on Britain's throne to a Protestant –

James's musing were cut short as the cabin hatch opened slowly, revealing Niamh's frightened, wide-eyed face.

"Niamh – "

"What are you doing here?" she hissed in alarm. "It is very dangerous for you to be here now, James. You should go now, before he returns – "

"He is occupied at the moment," James replied, although Niamh's reaction unnerved him. Had Brodie suspected that his wife had had a visitor? Had he treated her harshly in response? "And I am very sorry to intrude upon you again, but there is something I must know, something only you can tell me." He took a deep breath – if she was in fact a willing accomplice with her husband's schemes, then he was about to seal his own fate. "It concerns your husband."

Niamh regarded him warily, but she opened the door and ushered him inside with a quick wave of her hand. "I must admit I did not think I would see you again, James," she said. "But now that I have, I find I do not particularly care to discuss my husband. Is it not enough that he occupies my every night?"

James frowned at this unexpectedly intimate revelation. "You are not happy with him?"

Niamh gave him a tight, sad smile, the kind of smile one might give a child who had asked a naïve but acutely uncomfortable question. "Oh, you truly are a kind-hearted man, my dear, sweet James. But you did not come here to ask after my happiness."

Her melancholy air, together with her already-considerable beauty, threatened to unravel him. His mouth went dry, and he struggled to maintain a sharp presence of mind – he had come to ask after Brodie's conspiracy, and he would not have much time. But he recalled her mournful keening that had drawn him below decks all those weeks ago, and he realized suddenly that it was not seasickness, nor mere loneliness that had spurred her grief.

"He mistreats you?" James involuntarily balled his hands into fists at his side. "I know that another man's marriage is none of my concern, but if he abuses you –"

"It is not nearly so simple as that, kind James." Her smile, though still doleful, nevertheless seemed brighter as she regarded him with inscrutable eyes. "Though your concern is welcome. It has been so long since there has been anyone to ask after my welfare." She turned around, gazing longingly out of the cabin porthole at the silvery reflection of moonlight glinting on the waves beyond. "I believe you were going to inquire about the captain. Ask, and I will tell you what you wish to know."

James, his eyes drawn hungrily to her shapely form, was puzzled by her easy acquiescence. "Just like that? You will betray your husband to a man who is a virtual stranger to you?"

She rounded on him at once, and for the first time a fire blazed in her eyes, having burned at last through the film of melancholy that had shrouded her, veil-like, for the entirety of their acquaintance.

"Betray Andrew Brodie? Aye, and with what power I still have in me to do so! He is not truly my husband, and if anything I can tell you will bring about his end then so mote it be!"

Her outburst startled James into a shocked silence, from which he struggled for several moments to recover. "Not your husband? But – "

He cut himself short when he realized that she was weeping. "Niamh, I am terribly sorry to have upset you. If you wish me to leave –"

"No!" Her eyes were wide and brimmed full with tears, and she shook her head firmly. "I have suffered this lie for far too long. I will tell you whatever you wish to know about him, on one condition – that you also hear my tale. It will give me a great comfort to know that my grief is not entirely forgotten by the world."

James felt a terrible dread filling his heart, and he began to wonder that perhaps he did not know the half of Brodie's wickedness.

"Of course," he said softly, wishing he could reach out and draw her into his arms, though not for any selfish carnal purposes – he found himself, rather, wishing to provide her with true comfort and succour, to ease her pain and grief and protect her from whatever ills had befallen her.

She smiled at him, and he was glad to note a hint of the mysterious amusement that had so enchanted him before. "I wonder whether you have finally rekindled your fire, James. I hope so, for it would please me."

The words to which she hearkened back, which had been so mysterious to him at the time, seemed much clearer to him now that he had rediscovered a purpose in his life beyond finding his next bottle of rum or willing whore. "If that is so, then I have you to thank for it," he offered sincerely. "You had faith in me when I no longer had any in myself. Your unexpected kindness to a drunken, wayward sailor was a gift that I shan't soon forget. Please – if there is anything I can do to help you in any way, you must tell me. I will aid you in whatever way I am able."

She shook her head at him sadly. "I am beyond your help, I am afraid. All I ask is that you remember me as I spend the rest of my days in this prison of Brodie's making."

"Prison? Is that why he tells none of his crew of your presence? He chains you down here? Forbids you to leave?" James felt his ire rising and struggled to keep his voice low. "Niamh, why did not you tell me before – I will help you escape when we next make port –"

"Listen to me, James, I beg you." Her voice was kind, but there was an unmistakable steel in it that silenced his protestations at once. "If it were only a mere matter of escape, but it is not that simple. But first, before I tell you more, I must know – why did you come here tonight to ask me his secrets? Why do you seek to betray your captain?"

Her question threw James askew. "But you have just said that he has imprisoned you! Surely such a wicked man – surely you have no affection for him?"

"'Tis not my affection I speak of – it is yours," she said. "And when you came down here tonight in such a tumult, you knew nothing of my troubles. So I ask you again: why do you seek to betray your own captain? Is that not a sailor's cardinal sin?"

James was entirely confused – he'd been so certain he had found an ally in Niamh, but now she was asking him such probing questions, and for a moment he wondered whether this had all been an elaborate ruse to gain his confidence. But he realized that she was right – that he'd never said why he sought information about Brodie – and that if she was going to trust him with such sensitive information, she had a right to know for what purposes he sought it.

Trust – that was what it came to. He would have to decide, right now, whether he could trust Niamh, or not. It was a terrible risk, and if he was wrong, he would lose everything. The Tortuga wretch he'd been for so long had trusted no one. But Niamh had been the first to reach beneath that man's ragged, dishevelled exterior and find what noble spirit still lurked within, and if anyone deserved his trust, it was she. And so James did what he had not done in over three years, and took a leap of faith.

"I discovered that Captain Brodie is involved in a French plot to depose the king," he said without preamble. "He mentioned something about a 'totem' that the French were supposed to give him in exchange for his assistance in the rebellion, but they did not have it, and so he is going to collect it from a trader in Barbados. Once he has this totem, he intends to contact his fellow conspirators and put the plot in motion. So it is imperative that I stop him before he can move forward with his plans."

Niamh regarded him for a moment, her countenance unreadable. "And you thought perhaps he had confided in his 'wife'?" The bitterness with which she pronounced this last word was subtle but unmistakeable. "I admit I know little of your politics, James, and the kings of earthly realms matter little to me. But I find your loyalty to your homeland admirable all the same."

James furrowed his brows. "And yet Brodie claims that he is acting out of loyalty to Scotland. Do you not find his actions similarly admirable, no matter what other sins he has committed?"

Niamh shook her head. "You have already mentioned to me that he seeks some sort of totem. You see, whatever Andrew's political inclinations may be, they are not what drive him, no matter how he may protest otherwise. I suspect you have already encountered his penchant for collecting rare and valuable treasures?"

James recalled the cabinet of curiosities in Brodie's stateroom, and his bizarre fixation on the so-called Totem of Ikenna. "Yes, he showed me his collection. I did gather that acquiring this totem was of the utmost importance to him; he was quite agitated when the Frenchman informed him that he would have to travel yet further to acquire it."

"Then you have your answer," Niamh said, the bitterness in her voice now unmistakable. "Andrew Brodie may indeed adhere to his chosen political principles, but one thing and one thing only motivates him: and that is his desire to amass the greatest hoard of rare treasure the world has seen." She closed her eyes, as if preparing to impart an uncomfortable truth. "So yes, James, I admire your fealty to your people, as unblemished by personal greed as Andrew's is tarnished by it. And if I could help you foil his treachery, I would. But I am afraid I can offer you nothing you do not already know, for he has confided nothing of his plans to me. He confides precious little in me, I am afraid."

James struggled to hide his disappointment. Niamh had been his only meaningful lead. "But you know about his curio collection."

"Of course I do," Niamh said with a rueful smile. "For I am the centrepiece – Brodie's rarest treasure of all."

She turned from him then, towards the porthole, and stretched out a yearning arm, as if reaching for the sea forever beyond her grasp.

"You see, dear James, I am a selkie, and the day Andrew Brodie stole my skin was the day he stole my life. Now I am bound to him as surely as if by chains, and you see why I have said that there is nothing you can do to aid me."

James could feel his jaw drop as he goggled, wide-eyed, at Niamh, this strange and enchanting woman whose mysteries began to take shape, the pieces falling into place at last.

"A selkie? The seal folk from Ireland? I had thought they existed only in legend!" Though, having seen many fantastic and unbelievable things nevertheless prove to be true, he supposed, on the whole, that he should be less incredulous.

"Perhaps we are indeed legendary, but we are no less real for all that," she said with a small smile. "We prefer to keep to ourselves, to our simple lives among the waves, though we cannot help but be drawn to the villages of men – I suppose we are thus to blame for our own aura of mystery."

"But how did Brodie –"

"Capture me?" The sadness in her eyes had returned. "Yes, I did promise you a tale, did I not? And so a tale you shall receive, though it is a short and, I am afraid, a tragic one. I have said that our people are drawn to the shore, to mingle among men, and it is true – though I did not, as many of my kind do, go in search of a mate. You see, I already had a mate – my true husband, with whom I would often venture to shore to mingle among the men and women of a small fishing village on the coast of Clare. We would come ashore and assume the forms of man and woman, leaving our seal-skins buried in the sand, then journey to the village to dance and make merry. The villagers believed that we were merchants from the east, and we were content to allow them their fancy, for we greatly enjoyed their company." Niamh's expression grew wistful and faraway, as she indulged briefly in memories of a happier time.

"One night, as my husband and I danced and sang and entertained our friends in the village inn, a strange man entered, and I could not help but know as soon as I felt his cold appraising eyes upon me that he had somehow discerned my secret. Perhaps he had seen other selkies in human form before; I do not know. I inquired about him to the innkeeper, and he told me that the man was a merchant seeking a saint's relic rumoured to be buried nearby in an old monk's _clochán_. I felt uneasy and begged my husband that we should return to the water. He was certain I was spooking at phantoms, but seeing my fright, he bowed to my wishes. What a fool I was – to leave the safety of the inn!"

James began to understand where Niamh's story inevitably ended, and his heart clenched in sympathy. "Niamh, you could not have known –"

"No? Well I should have!" she said heatedly. "I know very well that a man can deceive and trap a selkie to keep her for his wife. I should have realized that to such a man, the presence of my husband would present little obstacle." Tears again spilled from her eyes, and James fought the urge to take her in his arms and console her.

"We left the village behind and returned to where we had buried our skins. He watched us long enough only to see where we had hidden them; then he revealed himself, like a spectre in the night. My husband of course stood to confront him, but all of his desire to protect me mattered nought against a pistol." She wept even as she ploughed on resolutely through the retelling of her tragedy, and this time James did not resist taking her hand in comfort. It was smooth and soft, as soft as any woman's hand he'd ever held, and his heart broke for this gentle creature who had been so cruelly torn from her husband and her life.

"I'm sorry," he offered, aware that the words were pitifully inadequate.

She offered him a sad but sincere smile in return, squeezing his hand and sending a thrill through his blood. "You are so kind, James, to comfort me. I have told this tale to no one – I have seen no one, save _him_ , for as long as I have been his prisoner. You do not know how deeply felt is your kindness." Her smile turned to a grimace of anger and pain as she finished her tale. "When my husband was – when he was gone, the man – Brodie – bound me wrist and foot, and he took my seal-skin, along with my husband's. The worst of it was his false pity – he kept apologizing for murdering my husband, and vowed that he would treat me well, that he simply adored the chance to possess such a rare and wonderful creature as myself, and that I should have no fear, for I would want for nothing." Her voice became bitter, full of bile. "Nothing but freedom, or companionship, or love! I long to die, to cast off these fetters and join my husband, but Brodie ensures that I remain in good health. And that is one favour I cannot ask of you, James, for it would not be fair to you. And so now you see why I say you cannot help me. I ask only this: that you remember me, and that you do whatever you can to stop that monster before he destroys any more lives." She kissed his hand, sweetly and softly, and graced him with a smile before releasing him. "And now you must leave – he shall not be gone much longer, I suspect, and if he catches you here, you now know the full extent of the cruelties of which he is capable, and I would not wish them upon you."

James felt his heart thumping hard against his ribs, and he struggled to come up with any words that could possibly do justice to Niamh's tragic tale. He had come to visit her for admittedly selfish reasons, to interrogate her about her knowledge of her husband's – no, her captor's – affairs; but though she had been unable to offer any assistance on that score, he had learned something far more valuable: that Andrew Brodie was not merely a traitor, but a wicked malefactor of the highest order, and a man who would make a very dangerous and lethal foe. James now harboured no doubt that he had to do everything in his power to stop Brodie, though he was no closer now to knowing how to do that than he was before. But there was something else, something that niggled at the back of his mind – an important detail that had been missing from Niamh's story, and that somehow fit together with what he'd learned on Port-au-Prince – but what?

"Your skin," he said suddenly, recalling the missing detail that had worried at the edges of his mind. "You said Brodie took your seal-skin, and thus bound you to him in your human form. But if you were to find your skin, you could return to your seal form, could you not? Then you would be free of him!"

Niamh shook her head. "He told me the first night he brought me aboard his ship that he had burned it. That is how men trap selkies – they seize us and destroy our seal-skin, and we are thus forever bound to our captors. If Brodie were to die, I would be released from his thrall, but I would still be doomed to walk the earth forever in this form. I am afraid that is the best I can hope for now."

James sagged, his brief hope dissipating away like the morning's fog. "Your tale grieves me sorely, Niamh. But I give you my most solemn vow: I will not rest until I have ended Captain Brodie's menace and freed you from your bondage. You have my word."

She reached a hand up, then, and touched his face, and, in spite of all the gentle tenderness he felt for her, he could not deny the jolt of warmth that flushed through him at her touch. "Thank you, James," she whispered. "Thank you for giving me something I have not had since that terrible night." She leaned in then and kissed him softly on the cheek, and James felt as though his heart would pound right out of his chest. "And now you must truly leave. He will not be long. Go, before he finds you. I could not bear the thought of harm coming to you as well." And with that, she opened the hatch, glanced swiftly across the hold to ensure that they were alone, and pushed him gently but firmly out.

"Good night, Niamh," he said quietly as she closed the hatch behind him. "I will not fail you. I swear it." His heart still drumming a frantic tattoo, he made his way shakily towards the topside ladder, his thoughts a maelstrom. Peeking carefully above decks to make certain that Brodie, Hinks, or Kurtz were not looking his way, he slipped carefully onto the deck and crept stealthily back to his usual perch against the starboard rails. He knew he should go to his bunk and try to rest, but with his mind in such a riot, he knew sleep was not to come any time soon. He reached into his coat pocket for the bottle of rum, uncorked it, and took a long, deep swig. Perhaps the liquor would quiet the tumult in his head. He needed time to think, but he knew no solutions would be forthcoming tonight – and he still did not know whom, if anyone, he could trust.

"A fine mess you've found yourself in, old boy," he muttered, taking a pull on his bottle. He'd just finished a long and satisfying swallow when a shadow against the deck ghosted beside him, and he turned to find Captain Brodie, clad as ever in the burgundy greatcoat, sidling up beside him on the railing.

"A fine mess, eh? Found yourself in a spot of trouble, have you, Norrington?" Brodie's tone was conversational, and James fought hard to stifle the rising cold panic that had clenched his stomach and twisted it into a score of knots. "Can't say as I'm surprised – I've always said that excess drink will lead a man to ruin every time. And the Lord knows you enjoy your excess drink, don't you?"

James tried to swallow, but his throat was utterly parched, as hard and implacable as a stone. Brodie fixed his unblinking black eyes directly on him, and James knew he had to respond in some way.

"I can manage my drink, sir," he croaked, clearing his throat to dispel the lingering dryness.

"'Sir?' It's 'sir' now, is it?" Brodie's mercurial humour careened into whimsy, and he bestowed upon James a smile that was more wolfish than mirthful. "You've certainly become much more deferential and how-do-you-do since you first boarded this ship, laddie. To be honest, I can't say it suits you. It's clear you're used to being the man giving orders, not taking them. I suspect it rankles you to answer to another man on board a seafaring ship. Do I have the right of it?"

Brodie had not averted his eyes, and James felt pinned in the captain's glare like the blue butterfly in the curio case. "I am grateful for the chance to earn my keep aboard the _Sagitta_ , sir," he said levelly. _You traitorous scum. Murdering, raping, absconding, treacherous villain. I shall see you destroyed if it costs me my life._

"Glad to hear it," Brodie responded, all traces of mirth gone. "Because I can't help but wonder whether you truly do appreciate this opportunity I've given you. I've shown you favour, Norrington, and you repay me with disappointment."

James's blood ran cold. "How do you mean, sir?" Could it be that Brodie had seen him disappear into Niamh's cabin after all?

"Do not play coy with me – that suits you even less than all this 'yes sir' horseshite," Brodie grated. James tensed, wishing wildly that he had his sword at his side – if Brodie was going to accuse him now, he wanted to at least go down with a fight.

"Do you make a habit of rogering other men's wives, Norrington?" Brodie demanded, and James gritted his teeth for the inevitable. He felt the sudden mad urge to laugh – his bold plan to stop Brodie had ground to a premature halt, and not because the captain had discovered that James knew of his treason or of Niamh's terrible secret, but because he was a jealous 'husband' – and, irony of ironies, the woman for whom James was about to die was the one woman he hadn't bedded.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" Brodie mocked. "Because my friend Captain Devereaux had quite the story to tell me, you can be certain. He assures me that he caught his whore of a wife _in flagrante delicto_ with another man, and furthermore, that this man had just delivered several crates of goods to his residence on my behalf. I assume you don't intend to tell me that you buggered off your duties and left one of those other simpletons to complete the delivery which I had entrusted to you?"

"What?"

"I trusted you to act on my behalf, and that most certainly did not include taking Madame Devereaux for a tumble!" Brodie was clearly incensed, but James felt only a clear, cool wellspring of relief, and he stifled the urge to laugh.

"You have disappointed me, Norrington. I had to plead Devereaux's forgiveness and assure him I would take care of the miscreant who bedded his wife." Brodie glared at him imperiously. "Fortunately for you, I have greater use for you as an able seaman than as an invalid, and I won't be flogging you for your absolute idiocy in Saint-Domingue. But consider yourself on notice – I won't abide such a betrayal of my trust again."

It was all James could do to suppress a wicked smile. To be lectured about betrayal and sexual ethics by a traitor and an absconder of women was nearly more than he could bear, but his relief at not having yet been found out supplanted his urge to taunt his villainous captain.

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again," he said with the wide-eyed sincerity of a schoolboy facing a thrashing. "But I must offer in my own defence, sir, that Madame Devereaux rather determinedly seduced me. I do not know if you are acquainted with the madame, sir, but her… charms are difficult to resist."

"I am not, but it would not matter at any rate, for I am a happily married man," Brodie retorted, and James struggled to keep from slugging the captain in the jaw right then and there. "You ought to mind your prick, Norrington. It's going to get you in a load of trouble one of these days, and the next man you cuckold may not be so forgiving." And with that, he swept abruptly from the rails with a flourish, and stalked towards the quarterdeck hatch.

"You should find your bunk, Norrington. Drunk or not, I still expect you on the main topsail before dawn breaks." Brodie disappeared swiftly down the ladder, leaving James alone and in a tumult on the deck, where he stood, in a daze, for several long moments. He decided at last to take Brodie's advice and retire to his hammock, but he did not sleep a wink, his mind consumed by thoughts of Niamh, alone and enslaved, keening out her pain and torment to the uncaring sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have endeavoured to remain true to the mythology of the selkies, the mythical seal-people of Scotland and Ireland, and it is indeed a common feature of such tales for a selkie maiden to be tricked or overpowered by a treacherous man, who would steal her skin and thus force her to remain his captive.
> 
> The clochán, to which Niamh refers, was a beehive-shaped hut common in southwestern Ireland and the outlying western islands used by early Christian ascetic monks for solitary prayer and contemplation. Many still exist, and they are a common sight along the west coast of Ireland.
> 
> As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!


	11. The Mariner's Delight

Geers Voort, as it transpired, was a difficult man to track down.

The _Sagitta_ had dropped anchor at Bridgetown just past midnight, and, to James's surprise, Brodie had immediately told the men that his business in Barbados would take at least a week, and so the men were at liberty to do as they pleased. Careful not to betray his concern amidst the wide grins and lusty cheers of the other sailors, James wondered at Brodie's leisurely attitude – the captain had been quite adamant to the Frenchmen in Port-au-Prince about his desire to obtain the mysterious totem, and had insisted that it was a matter of some urgency. Did that mean that he was uncertain where or when he was to meet the Dutchman who allegedly possessed the artefact, or did he have other nefarious business planned for his excursion to Barbados? Or was he merely spinning a tale in order to belay any suspicions that might have arisen had the _Sagitta_ 's stay in port been too brief to warrant the journey? James knew the only way to answer those questions was to follow Brodie's trail, but he also knew that the risk of being discovered was far too great; he was a seaman and a military man, not a spy, and he had no skill for covert surveillance. He had already fallen from Brodie's graces after the incident with Madame Devereaux, and he knew that he had no goodwill left to squander should the captain catch him out.

And so James had decided that the best way to discover the answers he sought was to find Voort himself. It was perhaps not the wisest strategy – if Brodie found out that he too was seeking Voort, he would surely suspect that James had somehow gotten wind of his plans. But after bearing witness to Niamh's terrible fate, James could no longer remain neutral; though, in truth, he had decided to cast his lot against his traitorous captain even before discovering what a rank villain Brodie truly was. Perhaps he was no longer in the King's service, but James had never been a man to take oaths – or loyalty – lightly. Discovering what Brodie had done to Niamh had only cast his decision with iron-clad certainty.

Yet so many pieces of the puzzle were still incomplete – and James realized that the less information he had, the greater his danger. He still did not know whom among the crew he could trust, nor what the 'Totem of Ikenna' was or what purpose, if any, it served; nor did he know who Brodie's fellow Jacobite conspirators were – other than they were, at least some of them, located in Charles Town, in the Carolina colony. And so, with so little to go on, James felt obliged to follow the one lead he did have – Voort, the Dutch trader who supposedly was holding the Totem of Ikenna for Brodie somewhere in Bridgetown. At least, if he found Voort, he might get some answers about the mysterious artefact and why Brodie wanted it so desperately.

Unfortunately, Voort was proving to be a rather elusive character. James had scoured most of the dockside taverns and inns upon arrival in Bridgetown, asking the publicans and patrons if they had seen or heard of a Dutch trader by that name; but, to his dismay, most of the patrons were fellow strangers who knew little of Bridgetown's affairs, and could tell him nothing. The publicans were scarcely more helpful; most merely grunted and shrugged, and James sensed that they were reticent to divulge any information that might brand them as loose-lipped gossips, discretion being at a premium among the clientele who provided the publicans' livelihoods. Even the few whose tongues had wagged upon the production of a tuppence had provided very little helpful information: the proprietor of the Keelhauled Johnny (named, so the man boasted, after himself, he having allegedly survived such a punishment aboard a 'merchant ship,' which James assumed to be piratical in nature) could only tell James that he knew of Voort, but had not seen him in Bridgetown in some months – which, Keelhauled Johnny was quick to add, did not mean that Voort was _not_ in Barbados, only that he himself had not encountered the trader. Thoroughly disappointed with his paltry bounty, James thus finished off his bottle of rum (it would have been rude, after all – to say nothing of suspicious and conspicuous – if he had not partaken of each tavern's fare as he went about his investigation) and stumbled out into the streets of Bridgetown. It was well past midnight by now and his head had gone a bit fuzzy from the effects of the rum, and thus James was quite pleased with himself when he alighted upon an idea that would enable him to earn some rest and comfort as well as, with any luck, provide him with some answers about Voort.

And so it was that he found himself awakening the following morning, bleary-eyed, in a small but tidy room, aware of a solid but not-unpleasant weight pressing against the upper half of his body. As his eyes gradually focused in the morning light, he glanced down and smiled at the wench who lay draped across him, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder and her legs entwined messily with his. It was a thoroughly pleasant way to greet the new day, and one he'd desperately needed after the dreadful revelations that had bombarded him in successive waves ever since Port-au-Prince.

The whore, a pretty little mulatto, regarded him with a winsome smile, and he responded with a lingering kiss, savouring the opportunity for much-needed female companionship. It was not long before the kiss deepened by mutual accord, and James soon found himself mounted atop her, thrusting frantically as they gasped and heaved in satisfaction before finding their release together. Spent, James flopped over onto the mattress while the whore snuggled up against him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns against his sweat-dampened chest. He closed his eyes and sighed, enjoying the post-coital bliss. Only the sound of a clattering cart on the street below, accompanied by a guttural string of creative oaths snarled by the cart driver urging drink-sodden or slow-witted pedestrians out of his way, broke through James's reverie, and he recalled, much to his dismay, that he had other things to do besides wile away the hours in bed with a lovely woman.

The whore whimpered sadly as he rolled reluctantly out of bed, and as he stretched the kinks out of his limbs, he could not help but contrast her willing eagerness to the surly reluctance of Margie, back in his days of penury on Tortuga. He supposed he was being unfair, he thought as he located his breeches in the corner of the room and tugged them on; Margie had not been employed in an elegant bordello, and he doubted Crusty supplemented her wages beyond what she earned on her back. Perhaps, he mused as he threw on his shirt, he would pay her a visit when the danger with Brodie was past – he'd cajoled a free favour out of her with such an assurance, after all. Assuming he were still alive to do so. He suppressed a shudder – thinking of Brodie reminded him what a dangerous and lethal villain his captain was, and underscored how urgent his task today was.

"It's a shame you must leave so soon," the whore – whose name was Polly, James recalled with a great deal more clarity than he'd managed with Margie all those weeks ago – pouted. He granted her a smile as he regarded her lovely nude body sprawled atop the sheets. Yes, it _was_ a shame, but one that could not be helped. Pulling on his coat, James reached into his pocket for a shilling. He'd paid her last night, but he wished to request an entirely different sort of favour from her now.

"I regret that I must depart so early. You are a very lovely lass, and I thoroughly enjoyed our evening together," he said graciously, placing the shilling on the small bedside table and smiling as she goggled at it, dumbstruck by his bountiful generosity. "There is only one more thing I must ask of you before I take my leave, if you would be so kind."

Shyly reaching out to touch the shilling, Polly regarded him with wide, incredulous eyes. "Of course, love, anything you need." Her smile grew lascivious as she rose from the bed, gifting him with a splendid view of her luscious curves. "Anything at all."

James swallowed hard and reminded himself that he did not have time for any more diversions, pleasant though they were. "As much as I'd love to indulge your offer," he said, his mouth curiously dry, "I am afraid I really must be on my way. But I must ask of you a question before I leave: are you familiar with a Dutch trader named Geers Voort?"

Polly's countenance shifted from aroused to perplexed at once. "Geers Voort? I'm sorry, love, but I don't exactly remember their names, you know?" However, she must have seen something in James's face – profound disappointment, perhaps – that caused her to reconsider her answer.

"Well, there is a Dutchman," she amended, a hopeful lilt in her voice. "He comes every so often. Always asks for Katie, he does. I think he likes his women yellow-haired, you know? He won't look twice at me, but that ain't unusual." The casual tone with which she detailed her rejection set James's teeth on edge; he'd immediately identified Polly as by far the loveliest of the brothel's girls. Clearly Voort – assuming he was the Dutchman in question – was not so egalitarian in his attitudes. James mentally shook the thought away; he needed information on Voort, whatever the man's predilections might be.

"And do you know if he has been around to see Katie recently?"

Polly creased her brow. "I ain't seen him, but that don't mean much – like I said, he don't look for me." She paused, an idea occurring to her. "Do you want me to go fetch Katie? Then you can ask her yourself."

"Well, I wouldn't want to be any trouble –"

"Oh, ain't no trouble." She grinned at him again, and he was beginning to think the shilling had been a wise investment. "You just make yourself comfortable, love. I'll fetch her straight."

James sat on the edge of the bed, and Polly returned a few minutes later with a buxom, flaxen-haired vixen in tow. The fair one – Katie – gave a lusty grin as she saw James perched on the bed.

"Oh, this one wants to make a three, does he? It ain't usually in my trade, but I might make an exception for such a handsome gent." She leered at him openly, and James struggled to keep his cock from responding too eagerly to such an direct invitation. Amongst all his debaucheries, _that_ was an act that remained an undiscovered country, and he could not lie and say the proposal was not tempting, not with such lovely, willing, and eager lasses.

He shook his head firmly. No – he could spare no more time. "As… delightfully adventuresome… as that sounds, miss, I'm afraid I have less pleasurable business at hand. Polly informed me that you occasionally entertain a Dutch trader by the name of Geers Voort, and I must know whether he is in Barbados at present. I have an urgent matter of business with him which must be discussed at once." He hoped he was not laying on the story too thick, but perhaps if Katie believed they were business partners, she would be more helpful, since he had not offered _her_ a shilling for her assistance.

He needn't have worried. "Oh, Geers?" she said, her voice awash with recognition. "Aye, he was in a few nights ago. He weren't the same as he usually is, though. Had a bit of a time raisin' the yard if you catch my meaning." She and Polly shared a bawdy snigger.

James's brows creased in concern, and he ignored the lewd jibe in his preoccupation. "What was the matter? Did he seem worried, angry, out of sorts?" Did he know Brodie was coming for him, to collect the totem? Was he afraid that the Scot would find it safer and easier to leave behind no witnesses to his treachery?

"Aye, definitely out of sorts," Katie affirmed. "Wouldn't say why, though. Sounded to me like somethin's got him spooked. He kept on jabberin' about 'throwin' it in the ocean, leavin' it to the sharks.' Got no idea what 'it' is – he wouldn't tell me nothin'."

James knew exactly what had the trader so spooked, and could hazard a guess as to why. "I see," he said carefully. "Do you know where he is now?"

Katie shrugged. "He told me he'd sold his rooms and was livin' in a tavern, that it'd be safer that way."

James frowned – he'd been to most of the dockside taverns last night. Had Voort been right above his nose the entire time and he hadn't even known it?

"Do you recall which tavern?"

Katie squenched her face, deep in thought. "Was it the Boar's Head? No… not the Hottentot neither… maybe the Mast and Mainsail?"

James, growing a bit exasperated, was just about to thank her kindly for her assistance and begin, once again, to dredge through the various inns and taverns of Bridgetown when Katie snapped her fingers decisively. "The Mariner's Delight! That was it, all right! I remember now 'cause Geers was sayin' how it was funny to be named as it is, seein' as it's not on the docks like most of the seafarer's taverns."

James felt a vast wave of relief rush through him – the notion of poking through every tavern in Bridgetown was as appealing as searching for a needle in a haystack, and he was glad to be spared the waste of time. "Excellent, Katie, thank you. You've been a tremendous help." She grinned at him with undisguised lust, and once again he had to set aside his urge to take her up on her rather unconventional – yet undeniably intriguing – offer.

"'Tis a true pleasure to aid such a lovely gentleman as yourself," Katie leered, and Polly's eyes sparkled with desire as well. Good Lord, he must abscond from this place at once before he squandered an entire day in the arms of such sweet and eager mistresses! He stood at once to leave, desperately hoping that his twitching cock would not give him away through his breeches.

"Your kindness and generosity shall be remembered, ladies," he assured them, nodding graciously to Polly and Katie in turn as he quickly exited the room, able to breathe comfortably again only once he'd stepped outside the brothel's doors onto the crowded, bright street below. Taking in a deep lungful of fresh air, James found that all thoughts of reuniting with Margie had fled; no, if he survived his encounter with Brodie, he might just take Katie and Polly up on that invitation.

* * *

The Mariner's Delight _was_ ironically named, as it turned out, being located on a crowded market square well away from any sight of the bustling docks or the sea. Threading his way through the market where vendors and mongers of all sort hawked their wares, James pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the tavern and strolled inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright tropical sun to the dank and ill-lit interior. The place was not crowded, though James could make no accurate estimate of how many patrons were present; the tavern was a jumbled rookery of alcoves, odd corners, and rooms that appeared to have been cobbled together piecemeal at varied intervals throughout the building's life. Perhaps that was why Voort liked it; he could see who entered without being seen?

James strolled up to the bar, where the barkeep swabbed halfheartedly at a pewter mug – reminding him, once again, of Tortuga, and of Crusty's unending quest to clean his filthy drinkware. The barkeep glanced up at him with a lazy, disinterested eye, never ceasing his swabbing all the while.

"What'll it be, mister? Ain't got any gin, if that's your fancy. God damned ship hit a sandbar and my shipment's about five fathoms deep. Got plenty o' rum, though, the finest in the Indies, made right here in Barbados."

"Then I'll take a bottle," James agreed. He'd learned yesterday that publicans were notoriously tight-lipped until you spent money. He passed the barkeeper a coin and lifted his bottle in thanks before uncorking it and taking a slow sip.

"Aye, that is fine rum," he said. It wasn't, in truth, any finer than any other he'd had in Tortuga or elsewhere, but a little flattery never went astray – a truth he'd learned applied equally to tavern keepers and whores. "Perhaps you can help me, sir. I am looking for an associate of mine, and I have heard that he frequents your establishment."

The barkeeper arched his eyebrows and nodded over James's shoulder. "That your 'associate' there? Because he sure looks like he knows you, but he don't look too happy about it."

Frowning in concern, his sense of danger pricked to full alert – because, of course, Voort did not know him, and the only person in Bridgetown whom James could imagine approaching him in anger was Brodie. James set his rum on the bar and dropped his hand to his blade before whirling around to face –

A fist, flying towards him before he had time to react, clocked him in the jaw. Staggering back against the bar in surprise, James swore viciously as he grabbed the bar to steady himself. The blow had not been particularly hard, and it had been more unexpected than anything; and so James rallied at once and raised his own fists to trade blows with his assailant. Lifting his head, he got a good look at the man for the first time, and felt his jaw drop in stunned disbelief.

Will Turner, his face a mask of taut rage, stood before him, fists clenched in fury. James blinked in confused astonishment.

"What in bloody hell are _you_ doing here?" he blurted.

"You son of a whore," Turner swore viciously. "I ought to run you through. I ought to demand satisfaction!"

James stared in bewilderment at the face of the little whelp he never thought he'd see again, and certainly not in a tavern in Barbados; but as Turner's angry words sank in, James's bewilderment was quickly supplanted by a steeply mounting ire. Here – _here –_ right in front of him, after all these years: the boy who'd pranced onto the battlements of Port Royal like a jaunty little bantam cock in that stupid foppish cavalier hat and stolen his fiancée, his love, his Elizabeth, right out of his arms and onto a filthy pirate ship like the thieving low-born bastard he was.

" _You_ ought to demand satisfaction?" James repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "You, who stole and destroyed one of His Majesty's warships? You, who absconded with another man's intended bride? You have the gall to demand satisfaction from _me_?" He realized he'd fair shouted the last words, and his attention was temporarily distracted by the barkeep, who slapped a grubby hand on the bar.

"Hey! No brawling in my tavern! If you gents have a quarrel, you'll be taking it outside!"

James, his ire fully roused, glared balefully at Turner. "And a good thing it is for you, whelp," he snarled. "You aren't worth the blood I'd have to clean from my blade."

Turner's face flushed hot and red at the insult. "You'll regret those words, Norrington," he said. "Just as you'll regret debauching Elizabeth, you wicked rake! You never deserved her!"

The puzzle shifted into place and suddenly Turner's fury made sense. James could not help but enjoy a self-satisfied smile as he realized that Turner had discovered that he'd plucked Elizabeth first.

"I debauched her? Is that what she told you?" he said, feeling a vicious glee suffusing through him. "Did she tell you how she begged me to take her? How she eagerly assaulted me for a repeat performance the next morning? How she draped her naked body across me and pleaded for me to tell her the stories of my scars? Did she tell you all that?" He paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the way Turner's jaw worked back and forth in mute rage.

"The truth is that she debauched herself. Do you feel betrayed, Turner? Cuckolded? What did you expect, from a woman who would enter into a betrothal on false pretences?" He ploughed on relentlessly, though Turner's countenance had faded from his awareness, and all he could see was a vision of Elizabeth, standing before him on the battlements, telling him that her betrothal to him had all been a cruel lie.

"Elizabeth is a false and fickle woman, and you have now learned the lesson that I learned three years ago. You have only yourself to blame for trusting her, and I have no pity for you, fool." James could not have said if he was speaking to Turner or to himself; all the memories of Elizabeth's betrayal had dissipated his mirth at mocking the young blacksmith, and he was only too glad, when Turner came at him with a furious bellow, to find a willing target for his rage.

His fist swung up, hard and fast, and clubbed the whelp across the head, dropping him cold. Someone, probably the barkeep, was bellowing, but James was not listening; he glared hotly at Turner, lying crumpled on the ground, and if the stupid boy wouldn't rise on his own, then by God James would drag him to his feet and force him to take his beating like a man –

"For God's sake, James, stop!"

A voice that was definitely not the barkeep's cut through his rage, for it was distinctly feminine, and tinged with the desperate hysteria of a woman near to tears. Breathing heavily, his fist clenched in a white-knuckle grip, James looked up, only to be greeted with the second jaw-dropping surprise of his day in the form of Elizabeth Swann, who stood, her face a mask of despair, several paces behind Turner's prostrate form. From the way she stood stiffly immobile, James gathered that she had been there for some several moments. She must have heard every furiously hateful word he'd said.

"Elizabeth," he said, her name like sweet poison on his tongue. "We meet in the oddest places, you and I."


	12. Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

"Really, James, was it necessary to hit him so _hard_?"

James shot a supremely vexed glance at Elizabeth, who was presently propping the still-unconscious Will Turner semi-upright in a booth in one of the Mariner's Delight's many alcoves. James had felt obliged to gift the bartender an extra shilling in exchange for his flagrant disobedience of the pub's prohibition on brawling, and, seeing as how Turner had taken the first swing, James felt that by rights, the coin ought to have come from his pocket. Perhaps that was a score he'd settle once the whelp awoke, which ought to be soon – Elizabeth's tedious concern aside, James didn't really think he'd struck the boy _that_ hard.

"He will survive," he replied curtly. "If anything, I didn't hit him hard enough."

Elizabeth huffed in disapproval, giving up for the moment on the Sisyphean task of keeping Turner from sliding lopsidedly into the booth. "I know how this must look to you, but I swear to you, we – I – didn't know you would be here, in Barbados of all places! I never meant for Will to confront you like that."

"No? You certainly felt at liberty to spin him quite the tale, didn't you? Apparently I 'debauched' you in Tortuga. Is that what you had to tell him when he discovered his blushing and virginal bride-to-be was anything but?"

"It wasn't like that!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her face reddening. "I – after we – did what we did, I didn't – I didn't really think about him afterwards," she admitted, her voice low and full of shame. "I went back to Port Royal – but then, not a month later, there he was, come for me at last, and told me he'd finally tracked down a lead about his father, and that I should come with him to Barbados at once." James watched with disinterest as she brushed a burgeoning tear from the corner of her eye.

"I couldn't – I couldn't lie to him. I tried, at first, but – I told him what I – what we – did. And no, I didn't tell him you 'debauched' me!" she added stridently, just as James had opened his mouth to interject. "I'm afraid Will didn't take it well. He was angry, but he didn't want to be angry with me, so… I think he convinced himself that you took advantage of me, so that he could direct all of his anger towards you. I'm sorry, James, I never meant – "

"For any of this to happen, yes, you mentioned that," James said trenchantly. He eyed the crumpled form of Turner across the booth with disdain. "Young Mr. Turner did always prefer a simple, uncomplicated world, full of white knights and villainous blackguards and no one in between." He glanced back at Elizabeth, who again wiped hastily at her eyes. "So what exactly _did_ you tell him?"

She met his gaze resolutely. "I told him exactly what happened," she said. "He brought up… he brought up our marriage, and how he couldn't wait to enjoy our life as a married couple, and I knew what he was referencing, and… I told him I wasn't a virgin. That's all I said, I swear."

James's eyebrow tilted in bemused incredulity. "That's _all_ you said? And he just intuited from that singular fact that I must have been the rake who 'debauched' you?"

"I told him it was you," she said flatly. "Oh, don't give me that look!" she snapped in response to James's glower. "He's – he was my fiancé. He deserved to know. I told him the truth – that I'd met you on Tortuga, and that I had – we had lain together. I also told him that, in your words, 'it meant nothing,'" she added acerbically.

"Oh yes, I'm sure that did wonders to convince him that you weren't debauched against your will," he said tartly. Though he supposed he couldn't fault her for using his own words against him. But, something else she'd said…

"Was that a past-tense use of the word fiancé?"

Elizabeth flushed redder, and an unmistakeable sadness settled into her countenance. "I told him on the voyage to Barbados," she admitted. "He was more hurt than angry, or so I thought, but he avoided me the rest of the trip. He told me when we put down anchor that I was 'welcome' to accompany him on his business, after which he would take me back to Port Royal and bid me farewell." She gave a small, rueful smile. "He didn't exactly break it off, really, but I got the impression that he needs some time to – to reconcile what happened."

James scoffed, again eyeing the prostrate Turner with contempt. The whelp didn't even have the decency to end his engagement in a direct manner. Like bride, like groom.

"And what about you?" Elizabeth blurted suddenly. "What brings you to Barbados of all places? It's a bit out of the way of the ordinary trading routes."

The scuffle with Turner, and the shock of seeing Elizabeth again, had pushed all thought of his mission from James's mind, but her words brought it back with a shuddering force, along with a new revelation that James chided himself for missing before. Narrowing his eyes at Elizabeth, he struggled to contain the anger that suddenly welled up in him, the beast that only she seemed capable of awakening.

"Well now, how curious you should ask," he said acidly. "You see, I took your advice and joined up with Captain Brodie's crew. And once again I've landed myself in a mess of trouble, and this time I might not get out alive. You would think I would have learned my lesson by now, but when it comes to you, my dear, I'm afraid I am doomed to be a perpetual fool."

Elizabeth goggled at him uncomprehendingly. "What? I don't understand –"

"What did you know of Captain Brodie when you sent me to him?" he demanded. "I know you booked passage on the _Sagitta_ from Port Royal to Tortuga. You obviously became familiar enough with him that you knew he needed to hire new hands. Did he speak to you? What did he say?"

"I don't remember any specifics!" Elizabeth exclaimed, taken aback by the sudden interrogation. "He was… polite. Charming. He liked to talk about Scotland. Why?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Have you gotten yourself in trouble with him, and now you're trying to blame me for placing you on his ship?"

"Why did he tell you he needed new crew? Did he say?" James was undeterred.

"He didn't tell me if the previous crew had died or been dismissed, if that's why you're beating about the bush! For God's sake, James, if you've landed yourself in some trouble with him because of your drinking I am not about to allow you to treat me as your scapegoat – "

"This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the traitor on whose ship I serve, thanks to you!" James snarled, careful to keep from shouting in his indignation.

"Traitor?" Elizabeth's face was a mask of complete confusion. "I – what? What on earth do you mean, traitor?"

And so James, as much out of a need to confide in someone – even the duplicitous Elizabeth Swann – as anything else, told her everything: Brodie's obsession with Scottish patriotism, his allegiance to the Jacobite cause, his bizarre fetish for rare and unique items, the connection with the French, his search for the Totem of Ikenna, and – here he hesitated, but he wanted Elizabeth to know the full horror of the man to whose employ she had sent him – of Niamh. When he finished the tale, Elizabeth's face had blanched and she, to her credit, was clearly horrified.

"My God," she breathed. "James – you have to believe me – I had no idea! If I'd known, I never would have –"

"I know," he said, feeling an odd urge to assuage her guilt. Perhaps it had been the aggrieved and clearly unfeigned pity that had stolen over her countenance when he had told her about Niamh, or perhaps it was the way she'd placed her hand on his forearm halfway through the tale and rested it there, squeezing him in sympathy during any particularly perilous or dramatic portions. But whatever the reason, James had felt his anger towards her dissipating slowly as he unburdened himself of Brodie's secret, and by the time he'd finished the account, he felt a strange and foreign sensation as she regarded him with a mixture of admiration and concern.

"What are you going to do?" she whispered, her hand still resting carelessly against his arm. James pretended not to notice.

He shrugged. "I cannot let him succeed. Even were it not for his treason – and that is reason enough to stop him – he is a villain and a blackguard of the lowest order for what he has done to Niamh. I have to free her, and do what I can to stop his treacherous plot. But first, I want to know why he wants this so-called Totem of Ikenna so badly. You didn't hear him, Elizabeth – he was furious when the French didn't have it for him. He was willing to detour all the way to the Windward Islands just for the chance to claim this prize. Perhaps it's just a trinket, but after my experience with the cursed pirates from the _Black Pearl_ – " here Elizabeth had the good grace to look away in shame, perhaps recalling how James and his men had not, in fact, found out about the pirates' immortality until they proved impossible to slay in battle, owing to her rather significant omission on that count – "I would prefer to know exactly what this 'totem' is, and what, if anything, it does."

He gathered himself, willing away the residual anger that her betrayal during those events of three years ago always aroused in him – now that he'd reminded himself of his mission in Bridgetown, he had no time to waste on petty recriminations. "I managed to track the Dutch trader's last known location to this tavern. Before I got the chance to ask if he still took rooms here, your erstwhile fiancé interrupted me quite rudely."

Elizabeth spared a glance at Turner, who was now groaning, groggily half-awake, in his booth. "Then perhaps you should go ask the barkeep now," she said, keeping an eye on Turner as he stirred. "I think Will is waking up. And… well, it might be best if you weren't sitting here when he does."

James cocked an eyebrow as he rose up out of his seat, pretending not to notice the departure of Elizabeth's warm hand from his arm. "Very well. But you may tell your fiancé – or whatever he is to you now – that if he tries to trade blows with me again, it will end very much the same for him."

Ignoring her glare of exasperation, he ambled up to the bar, where the barkeeper greeted him with a sullen look. "I hope you be here to order more drink, and not to start another brawl in my tavern."

"I can assure you that I have no intention of starting any brawls in your tavern," James replied, keeping the irritation from his voice. It hadn't been his idea to start the first one, after all. "Before I was so rudely interrupted, I had intended to ask after a patron of yours, who has been keeping rooms here. He is a Dutch trader by the name of Geers Voort. Perhaps he is here now?"

The bartender, immediately suspicious, set the tankard he'd been polishing down on the bar. "Popular man these days, Voort is. An' what's your business with him?"

So James hadn't been the first person to ask after Voort – had Brodie already beat him here? James knew that if he couldn't find Voort here, he would have precious little chance of tracking him down elsewhere. And so he opted to tell the publican the truth – or as close to the truth as was safe, at any rate.

"I believe that he is in great danger," James said. "I am not the only man searching for him. I mean Mr. Voort no harm, but I cannot say the same of the others who seek him. I desire only information from him."

The publican raised his eyebrows. "Danger? Look mate, this ain't some rough-an'-ready dockside tavern. I run a respectable business here. I ain't got no time for trouble."

"And I don't intend to cause any," James said. "But the other men who seek Voort may not be so nobly inclined."

"Well, they'll hafta go elsewhere – and so will you, I'm afraid," the barkeep said, picking up his tankard again and swiping at it with the grimy rag. "Voort packed up an' left this morning, just afore you came in. Seemed real spooked. Gave me a bag o' coin and said that if anything happened to him, I was to arrange to send it to his missus in Aruba." The barkeeper started, as if just realizing that James might be one of the reasons Voort had been so spooked. "Hey – you ain't gonna do nothin' to him, are ya?"

"No – I told you I mean him no harm. But Voort has something in his possession which someone else wants very badly."

"How bad?" The barkeep gulped, his face blanching. A brawl was one thing, but this… this kind of intrigue was a league beyond.

"Bad enough to kill for it," James replied. The publican blanched further, and James suspected the man wasn't telling him everything. Then he recalled the barkeep's offhand comment about Voort being a 'popular man these days.'

"I'm not the first person who has come in seeking Voort today, am I?" James asked warily.

The barkeep swallowed heavily, before the words came spewing out of him in a great rush. "Listen mate, I swears – I didn't know he meant to harm ol' Geers, or I wouldn't have said nothin'! The bloke was real charmin'-like –said he was a regular business partner of Voort's and had heard Geers was afraid of some men what he owed debts to, but that it was gonna be all right because after their deal Voort was gonna have enough money to pay 'em all off! I didn't think nothin' of him, I swear!"

James cursed, a creative string of sailor's oaths. The damned fool barkeeper had likely led Brodie straight to Voort. "This 'bloke' was tall and thin and very Scottish?" The barkeeper nodded in confirmation, and James swore again.

"Well, it's a good thing Voort left you money for his missus," he said sharply. "It's likely she'll need it after you delivered a viper straight to the poor bugger's doorstep."

"See here, it ain't like that!" the barkeeper exclaimed, his eyes wide and pleading. "I don't know where Voort went! All I know is he ain't here no more! I hope the damn fool had a better hiding place than this, if he's got someone out for blood sniffin' around after him!"

With a snarl, James pushed away from the bar, but not before tossing a tuppence on the counter top. "That's for your information – and your silence. If the other man comes back – "

"I ain't gonna say nothin'! But listen, mate – I ain't about to die for Voort, nor for you neither!"

James returned to the booth to find Turner awake, clutching a hand to his head and glaring balefully at him. Elizabeth, tellingly, sat slightly apart from him, and they were not touching. Her face was streaked with tears. The tension radiating from the table was palpable, and James hesitated. He really had no more business with them, after all, and he needed to get on his way if he had any prayer of finding Voort before Brodie did –

"You were right, you know," Turner said at last, interrupting his musings. "What you said to me before you swung your fist into my skull. She lied to you, promised to marry you, and then left you for me. Well, now she's lied to me, and left me for you. It's a funny old world, isn't it, Commodore?"

"I never lied to you," Elizabeth said quietly, making no effort to wipe away her tears. James felt that odd pang inside him again, and a swiftly mounting anger, aimed at Turner, gathered in his chest.

"You allowed me to think that he took you against your will!" Turner grated, directing his glare at her. "And all this time, you fell willingly into his arms? The man you spurned for me, and you turn to him when I am gone?"

"You drew your own conclusions, Will," Elizabeth said tiredly. "I told you that we went to bed together. You didn't want to believe that I would betray you, so you convinced yourself that James forced me. He did not." She looked up at James, then, and he saw an unexpected strength in her countenance, drawn in sharp contrast to her defeated tone and her veil of tears.

"But I did betray you, Will. Just as I earlier betrayed James." She regarded James with a melancholy mien, and then stood, moving away from the booth to gaze out of a window into the crowded market square beyond. She turned to James again, and for the first time, written in her face, he saw an emotion he'd never seen grace Elizabeth Swann's countenance – regret.

"Everything you said about me was true, James," she said, smiling sadly. "I am fickle. And I am false. And I am sorry that I hurt you both."

James could only wonder at what conversation had transpired between the ill-fated lovers during his brief absence to inspire such soul-searching from Elizabeth and such anger from Turner; he supposed Elizabeth had (for whatever reasons of her own) set the record straight about their tryst, but in all his dealings with her, he'd never known her to express true remorse for anything she had done. She was a force of nature, like a hurricane; one did not expect a hurricane's contrition for sending a ship to its doom at the bottom of the ocean, and nor did he expect Elizabeth to feel guilt for the things she had done in the course of pursuing her whims and fancies.

"I thought you loved me, Elizabeth," Turner said. Beneath the blacksmith's anger burned a real pain, a pain James knew all too well – but he could not find it within him to feel any sympathy. Turner got out of the booth gingerly, hand still cradling his face, where a large purplish bruise was beginning to form on his left temple. Elizabeth turned from the window, and regarded Turner with a rueful attempt at a smile.

"Oh, Will," she said, a single tear making a serpentine path down her cheek. "I don't even think I know what love is."

Whatever Turner had been expecting her to say, that clearly hadn't been it – or, perhaps, he had already known that, no matter what she said, it wouldn't have mattered. With head bowed, he nodded, briefly, once; began to reach his arm out to her, then thought better of it, and lowered it to his side, slowly and deliberately. He took a deep breath, as if searching for something to say, but thought better of it. Turning slowly, he shot one final, hate-filled glare at James before brushing past him, making his way for the tavern's main room and the door. Before he reached the threshold, however, he stopped.

"I intend to return to Port Royal in two days. If you want to come along, I won't turn you away. If you want to stay here with him… I won't seek you out. Goodbye, Elizabeth." And then he was gone, through the doors and into the crowded square.

James didn't quite know what to say. This should have been his greatest moment; his ultimate vindication. Turner had stolen his fiancée, and now he, James, had, in a way, stolen her back; Elizabeth's betrothal to the blacksmith was over, ending in a betrayal that was, in its way, as grievous as the one she'd inflicted on James all those years ago. And yet, James could find no glee in his heart as he watched Elizabeth, silently weeping at the window, her face turned, refusing to seek out Turner's diminishing form.

"Elizabeth…"

"There is nothing more to say, James," she said, turning abruptly from the window and swiping her sleeves roughly across her face, clearing away the damp trails of tears. "What's done is done. I expect you found your Dutchman, and you'll need to be on your way if you mean to intercept him."

"Well, actually, he's gone," James said, glad that she had changed the subject of her own accord – a perplexing melange of emotions ebbed through his mind and heart, and he couldn't begin to make sense of them, nor did he have the faintest idea what he should say to her after what he'd just witnessed. He was grateful that she'd spared him the need. "He left the tavern this morning, and Brodie's already in pursuit – he tracked Voort here before I did, and that fool of a barkeep set him hot on the trail." He shrugged helplessly. "Even if I ask around and find out where else Voort might have gone, my chances of finding him before Brodie does are slim to none. I won't be able to stop Brodie from acquiring the totem, and, given Brodie's tendency to make a corpse of anyone who witnesses his treachery, I doubt I'll be able to ask Voort any questions in this life, so I won't even know what the hell this 'totem' is." His shoulders sagged in defeat, and hot, aimless rage welled up in his chest. It was unbearable – the thought of a monster like Brodie claiming another victim, and all because James had been one step behind the entire time, trailing after his treacherous captain like a shadow.

"Wait," Elizabeth said suddenly. "The totem… you think it is cursed?"

James shrugged, his hands balling into fists at his side. "I don't have the faintest idea! I know Brodie collects odd and unusual artefacts, the rarer the better. I suppose if the totem were cursed, that would only add to its appeal in Brodie's eyes. God help us all if there's another cursed object that renders its owner immortal."

"I know someone who might be able to help," Elizabeth said slowly. James looked at her incredulously, and found her countenance to be utterly serious.

"You know someone here?" he said doubtfully. "Elizabeth, who could you possibly know in Barbados – "

"You remember that I came here with Will to investigate a lead he'd gotten as to his father's whereabouts?" James frowned, puzzling at the relevance. What on earth did Turner's misbegotten pirate father have to do with anything?

"Well, Will discovered that his father has been enslaved for one hundred years on the _Flying Dutchman_ – Davy Jones's ship," she said.

"Davy Jones?" James said dubiously. "As in the mythical underworld captain who keeps captive the souls of those who died at sea?"

"The very same," she responded. "And really, James, you ought to know by now that 'mythical' is not, in fact, synonymous with 'false.'"

Well, that was fair enough. After all, his captain was keeping a selkie imprisoned on _his_ ship, so why shouldn't Turner's long-gone father be an undead sailor toiling away for the Hades of the sea?

"So, what has Davy Jones got to do with Barbados?"

"Nothing, as far as I know," she replied. "But Will learned of someone here who knows quite a bit about Jones – his history, his weaknesses, how to reach him. And so we went to speak with her – and I would hazard a guess that if anyone besides Brodie or Voort can tell us anything about your totem, it would be her. She… well, apparently, she never stays in one place for too long, so if we mean to ask her, we ought to do it now."

"Her?" And what was all this business of _we_? "Who is 'she'? And what do you mean by 'we'?"

"Well," Elizabeth said, "She's a sort of witch, I believe. I didn't feel it prudent to ask too many questions of a woman who keeps skulls in her hut." _Skulls?_ James sighed. This just kept getting better and better.

"So, I – or perhaps I should say _we_ – are going to go ask a witch about the Totem of Ikenna, is that it? Remind me again why you've invited yourself?"

"If you're that averse to my company, I suppose I can un-invite myself," Elizabeth retorted. "In which case, I shall wish you the best of luck finding her on your own without a guide who has already been to visit her once before." She glared at him pointedly, and he supposed he had to concede that she had a point.

"Very well," he sighed. " _We_ shall go see your skull-fancying witch and see what we can learn about this totem, in the absence of any other meaningful course of action. She's here on Barbados?"

"Yes – on the other side of the island, on a little outcropping of rocks on the shore. If we leave now, we can make it most of the way before sundown. A carriage will take us part of the way, but once the road ends, we'll have to make our way through some gullies to the beach."

It wasn't the best of plans, but it was the only plan he had, now that Voort was in the wind. And… perhaps it would give him a chance to unravel some of the strange feelings Elizabeth had been stirring in him since her inopportune arrival in the tavern with her former fiancé. (Her most recent former fiancé.)

"Then we should locate a conveyance without further ado," he said as they made their way through the door of the tavern, emerging into the crowded market square and searching through vendor stalls and masses of humanity for a vacant carriage. "Oh – what did you say this witch was called?"

Elizabeth, having located a carriage, flagged it down, and as it pulled to a stop, James (who, in spite of everything, still retained old, well-worn vestiges of his gentlemanly manners) dutifully opened the door to allow her to climb inside.

"Her name is Tia Dalma," she said.


	13. The Curse of King Ikenna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter addresses the issue of slavery, and while I have made all efforts to ensure a respectful treatment of the subject, I wanted to give a heads up for those who find the topic particularly upsetting. It is not an easy thing to write about, but I do hope I have addressed it in a sensitive manner. As always, feedback is greatly valued.

"All right, then, this here's the end of the line. Out wit' ye – I got to get back to Bridgetown afore night falls!"

It was with such a decorous farewell that the carriage driver deposited James and Elizabeth at the gates of a stately plantation home far to the north and east of Bridgetown, scarcely waiting for them to step clear before he whipped his horses and drove off and into the west, back up the narrow rutted road he'd come. The ride had been pleasant enough; the road held close to the western coast heading north out of Bridgetown, providing them with a splendid view of the sea's turquoise waves, before swinging east through endless rolling fields of sugarcane. 'White gold,' they called it, and it was the reason for Britain's presence in these otherwise land-poor islands; defending those islands, and the wealth they produced, had been James's _raison d'etre_ during his tenure with the Royal Navy's Caribbean fleet. And yet, despite owing his very livelihood to sugar, he'd never bothered to explore the plantations during his time in Jamaica. His duties saw him either out to sea or firmly ensconced in garrison life at Fort Charles; he'd never had any need or inclination to venture inland to the rest of Jamaica.

And so it had been with a curious interest that he'd gazed out the window of the carriage to the fields of tall, robust sugarcane, undulating wave-like in the gentle breeze, that traversed the interior of Barbados. Every now and then they drove past groups of dark-skinned African slaves, most of them men, toiling bare-chested in the fields under the unremitting tropical sun. Only once did he see another white man – a stocky man with a cruel face, who stood atop a small watchtower and glowered at the slaves from above, all the while rhythmically slapping a large, brutal-looking whip into his open palm, as if itching to use it on one of the hapless souls labouring away below. With a shiver, James looked away, and cast his gaze back into the interior of the carriage, where Elizabeth sat stiff and motionless beside him, her gaze steadfastly maintained on the opposite window.

She'd become quiet and distracted ever since they'd entered the carriage, and James had let her be – in truth, he was thankful for the opportunity to silently reflect on the events of that afternoon, and on the ever-swirling riot of thoughts that constantly besieged his mind regarding Elizabeth Swann. He knew he should have been braying with glee at the ignominious end to her betrothal to Will Turner, and of his part in it; but for some reason too complicated for him to divine, he couldn't. He didn't feel sympathy for her, not quite; but neither did he feel the expected _schadenfreude_ that her fickle nature had come back to betray her at last, leaving her alone and unloved.

He took the opportunity to study her profile as he'd done on so many occasions in the distant past, when he had been a decorated officer and the toast of Port Royal and she the glittering debutante jewel of its high society. How he had dreamed of her, then; had delighted in her sparkling wit and otherworldly beauty! How he had imagined, naively, that she might return his affections! He stifled a sigh and looked away, fixing his gaze resolutely on his lap. Did she – now, after everything that had happened, and after he had been reduced to such a mean station – belatedly return the sort of affection he'd so longed for in his other life? He shook the thought away with a swift mental shrug – down that path lay madness, as he well knew, and he could not at the moment afford any distractions, especially those engendered by the woman he once loved. Best not to pry too deeply into anything that involved Elizabeth – for his own good. And so, when the carriage driver deposited them at the gates of the great plantation house, he looked to her with a measured countenance and waited for her to break the silence.

She continued to avoid him, her eyes instead fixed on the massive manor just beyond the gates in front of them. "Such a grand palace," she murmured. "It would be right at home on a country estate in England. I wonder who owns it – a wealthy sugar baron, no doubt."

"Regretting your decision to flee your life of comforts to take up with a penniless pirate?" The cutting aside left his mouth before he could rein it in, and she turned to regard him with a withering glare.

"You know nothing of my life," she said brusquely, brushing past him down the path away from the gate. Bemused, he followed her as she reached the edge of the dirt path and began to push ahead into the bushes.

"I know that your time with the pirates was far shorter than you've let on," he said, unable to stop himself, and at this she turned to goggle at him. "You said Turner found you in Port Royal. It sounds to me like you went home to dear old papa."

"So what if I did?" she replied heatedly. "It wasn't as though I could have come back to you."

Her words burrowed under his skin, and he was left speechless as she charged ahead through the brush, lifting her skirts with one hand as she swiped low-hanging branches out of her face with the other. There had been something… odd about her tone. Anger, certainly, but tinged with… what, exactly? Regret? Longing?

He shook his head angrily. Such speculations got him nowhere, and the last thing he needed right now was more upheaval in his life courtesy of Miss Swann. He brushed a large palm frond out of his face and watched Elizabeth as she picked through the underbrush, heading down a barely-discernible path into what looked to be some sort of gully.

"Do you even know where you're going?"

"Of course I do," she shot back over her shoulder. "I told you, I traveled this path just a few days ago. I can assure you that I am more than adequate to the task of navigating –" The rest of her rejoinder was cut off by a high-pitched shriek as she flailed suddenly and spasmodically, her arms flapping about her face. James instinctively reached for his blade, but – with a stifled snigger – he noticed a fine coating of webbing plastered against Elizabeth's face and hair.

"Well then, by all means navigate on," he said wryly. "Though I advise avoiding the spider webs where possible." He returned the poisonous glare she directed his way with a smug grin.

They proceeded through the tropical forest, picking their way gingerly down the gully and precariously up the other side. Elizabeth's footing, despite his earlier jibe, was sure and steady, leading them across the damp, moss-covered hollows of fallen trees and the spongy soil of the forest's floor. James followed her dutifully, carefully clambering up a series of slippery, lichen-encrusted boulders, where he emerged beside her at a sudden outcropping overlooking the ocean.

The ocean here, on the weather side of the island, was wild and savage, quite unlike the calm waters and sailor-friendly bays that caressed the western shore. Ferocious waves roared up from the sea beyond and crashed cacophonously into the rocky coastline. Any ship that attempted to lay anchor here would be doomed at once, dashed and broken against the crags by the unforgiving sea. It was as remote a location as one could find on an island otherwise tamed by man. The sun had disappeared behind the trees, leaving the eastern coast shrouded in shadows. There was no sign of habitation anywhere.

"So, where is this witch of yours, then?" James inquired sceptically, his eyes roving over the barren and rock-strewn beach, interspersed by tall, forbidding cliffs. It was a desolate place, even for a witch.

"There," Elizabeth pointed to a cove on the opposite side of a cliff face, sheltered in by the rocks from the sea beyond. "She lives in a sea cave just under that cliff. It's just now dusk; we should be able to see the light of her fire once we descend to the beach."

They eased their way carefully down to the beach, the rocky sand littered with driftwood and the innumerable corpses of various small sea creatures which had been washed ashore with the tide. Elizabeth led him up a narrow, scrubby path around the cliff, and as they approached the bend in the path back towards the sea, a faint glow, at first barely perceptible, slowly began to illuminate the path ahead.

"Through here," Elizabeth added unnecessarily, as they made their way down the rocky path. The light guttered unsteadily, casting in its capricious wake a series of ghastly shadows against the cliff wall, a carnival of grotesqueries. James, never one to quail from any challenge, felt his heart clinch in his chest, and began to wonder if agreeing to meet this witch who kept a menagerie of bones and skulked in abandoned sea caves was truly the only way he could get to the bottom of the mystery of Brodie's artefact.

_It's far too late for second thoughts now_ , he chided himself sternly as he rounded the bend.

"Ahh, young Miss Elizabeth. You have come back to ol' Tia Dalma, hmm? I knew it was just a matter of time. Young Mister Turner, he has a destiny, but you ain't a part of it."

The witch's words were addressed to Elizabeth, but her eyes – of an oddly amber hue, in stark contrast to the smooth ebony of her skin – were fixed unblinkingly on James. He was pinned, unable to breathe under the relentless intensity of her gaze, which, even more so than Niamh's had done, seemed to strip effortlessly away all the barriers and shields he'd erected and penetrate straight through to the heart of him. He felt naked and exposed, his secrets laid bare, as the witch stared straight into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity –

"An' who have you brought me in place of de boy who has lost his father? A man who has lost himself?" The musical cadence of her words, low and rhythmic, entranced him, drew him deeper into her spell, and he was unable to make any reply.

"I am truly sorry to disturb you again, er, Miss Dalma, but –" But whatever Elizabeth had been meaning to say was silenced as the witch, with an impatient wave of her hand, advanced slowly to James, who remained rooted to the spot.

"You come to me for answers, but you do not know de questions," she continued as she made a slow circuit around James, as if appraising a chattel at a market. "You come to me twice in two days, each day with a different man, each man lookin' for something new. But what are _you_ lookin' for, Miss Elizabeth? You thought a pirate's life would bring you freedom? You thought you'd find your life's meanin' on de high seas? And yet here you are, still lookin' for meanin' in whatever arms you find it. Fool of a girl! You will never find you way until you know what you seek. Only then will you have your answer."

Elizabeth, her features distorted by the flickering firelight, opened her mouth as if to protest, but Tia Dalma ignored her utterly, instead raising her hand to trace along James's jaw. James gave a twitch; the touch was not erotic, per se, but an undeniable energy nevertheless passed through his skin and into his blood, leaving his cheek tingling in response.

"An' what do _you_ seek? What aid does an officer of de King require from one such as myself?" James furrowed his brows in surprise, but the witch merely smirked at him. "You are amazed that Tia knows where you come from? You are not de first King's man I have seen, _mon capitaine_ , and I can always tell your kind. The way you stand up straight, like you own de world and everythin' in it." She picked at the ragged sleeve of his coat. "But you don't belong to the Navy no more, not with these rags. You've lost your path – maybe you come thinkin' Tia Dalma will help you find it?" She cackled, and the sound was ominous, echoing across the walls of the skull-strewn cave. "Then you came to de wrong place. I don't change de fates."

James met her eyes levelly, fighting the urge to squirm under her eviscerating gaze. "I am not looking to change my fate," he said. "I have brought it entirely upon myself, by any regard. I do not deserve to serve at the pleasure of my King." He could not stop himself from stealing a glance at Elizabeth, who looked, shame-faced, at her feet. Did she, at last, recognize the part she'd played in ensuring his doom? It hardly mattered; what was done was done, and he was not here, as the witch had surmised, to revisit his past.

"But I remain a loyal Englishman, and a treasonous plot has come to my attention, a plot that has been set in motion by a cruel and wicked man who will stop at nothing to ensure its success. This man seeks something, and if I am able to stop him from acquiring it, then I might be able to thwart his treachery before it is too late. It has been brought to my attention – " another surreptitious glance at Elizabeth – "that you are something of an expert in… unusual artefacts. I was hoping you could help me find this article before the villain does."

The witch remained silent throughout, but her eyebrows cocked upwards in a mockery of mirth, and she loosed another unsettling cackle into the echoing cavern. "Treason? Tell me, _mon_ _capitaine_ , what I should care for treason against your King of England? England, France, Spain – it makes no difference to me which white king rules these islands." The mocking smile was gone at once, replaced by an ireful glare. "Do not ask me to intervene in your politics. And do not ask me to take de side of one master over another."

"I do not ask you to concern yourself with politics," James said, angry with himself for his misstep. "But this man – Brodie – he is a violent and evil blackguard who will cause much suffering if he is not stopped. He came to Barbados to seek the Totem of Ikenna, and I have attempted to track it down before he could find it, but so far –"

"De Totem of Ikenna?" The witch's menacing countenance transformed at once into an expression of sudden, rapt attention. "Why did you not simply say so? If a man seeks de Totem of Ikenna, no good can come of it, mark my words!"

"Why?" Equal parts excitement and apprehension thrummed through James's blood; at last, he was closing in on the answers he needed. "What is the Totem of Ikenna? Why does Brodie want it so badly?"

Tia Dalma answered his insistent interrogation with a ghost of a mocking smile, and glided back towards her fire-pit. The guttering flame cast her shadow on the cave wall beyond, a grotesque spectral marionette convulsing in a sinister danse macabre.

"De story of de Totem of Ikenna is de story of these very islands. And it is not a pretty one, _mon capitaine_. It is a dark road you seek to travel – but once I begin de tale, there is no goin' back. Are you certain you mean to proceed?"

"Of course I am certain!" James sputtered impatiently. "If Brodie seeks this totem for some… purpose, then I must know what it is!"

"Very well, then." The wicked smile returned, and James was distinctly discomfited by the look in the witch's eyes.

"De tale begins many years ago, in a country far, far away from here. In that country there was a great king. He was a noble and just ruler, beloved by all of his people and respected by all de other chieftains. None of them dared to trespass on Ikenna's lands, for he was feared and respected in equal measure.

"But King Ikenna's greatest joy was in his family. His wife was de most beautiful woman in all de land, and she was as loyal and true a mate as any man could ever want. She gave de king six children – five strong, handsome sons, and one daughter, as beautiful as her mother and de apple of her father's eye. King Ikenna so loved his daughter that he was determined that only de very best man could take her for his bride; and so it was that when de chieftain of a neighbouring kingdom came to trade and asked for Ikenna's daughter's hand in marriage, de king refused. For this rival chief was known to be a covetous and evil-natured fellow, lacking in courage and honour.

"The rival chieftain was outraged at Ikenna's refusal and stormed out of de kingdom at once, without even completing his trade. Ikenna was glad to see de back of him – for he was relieved that de chief had not pressed his suit for his daughter's hand – and it was not long before a messenger arrived at Ikenna's court from de rival, expressing de chieftain's apology for his behaviour and inviting Ikenna and his family to a peace banquet.

"Now, you have to understand – to refuse an offering of peace would have been unthinkable to Ikenna, being a man of justice and honour. But men of honour have a weakness – they are easily betrayed by those with no such scruples.

"For you see, de rival chief had entertained a visitor to his court, a strange man from a faraway land who had arrived in a mighty ship from de seas. This foreign man promised de chief wealth and riches beyond his wildest dreams if he could only deliver to him a fine crop of strong men to serve as slaves across de sea. De chief saw his opportunity to rid himself of his hated rival and he eagerly agreed, on de condition that he would sell all de captives but one – Ikenna's beautiful daughter, whom he would keep for himself.

"And so it was that when Ikenna arrived at de feast, he was greeted not by de rival chief, but by an army of men with pale faces and strange armour, who immediately seized upon him and his family and bound them up in irons. Ikenna stirred his men to fight, but those who did were cut down by de strange and magical weapons of de pale men, which spit fire and dealt instant death to any who struggled. When Ikenna's eldest boy, who was de strongest and bravest of all his sons, fell in battle, de king's will to resist was broken, and he was taken up, along with his family, to de ship of de pale men. When his daughter was taken away by de rival chieftain, Ikenna screamed his rage to de ends of de earth, but de pale men paid no heed. And so Ikenna and de rest of his family were shackled in chains in de hold of de ship, and he was never to see his kingdom, his beloved homeland, again."

James's thoughts flickered back at once to the slaves he'd seen in the sugarcane fields, tirelessly thrashing away at the tall stalks with their machetes under the baleful eye of the overseer. Those men too had been wrenched away from their homes and families, packed into the holds of ships like so much chattel, and brought to these islands, their liberty forfeit, to bring profit to the sugar barons, who felt no moral compulsion to compensate them for their labour or their suffering. A thick, heavy weight settled into the pit of his stomach, but Tia Dalma, heedless of his discomfort, relentlessly pressed on.

"De journey across de sea was long and brutal. Ikenna and his family were chained, ankle to wrist, against de bulkheads, and despair overcame them like a shroud. Four more of Ikenna's sons died on de journey, and by de time de ship made port, they were all on de brink of starvation. But there was no time to waste – de ship's master whipped them, drove them like cattle out of de hold and onto de deck, where they were loaded into a cart for de market. Despite his hunger, Ikenna remained a strong and proud man, and so he was purchased by a plantation owner looking for strong bodies to cut his sugarcane. De plantation man also bought Ikenna's wife and son, and for a moment, Ikenna believed that perhaps he could bear his fate after all.

"The sugar master was a cold and cruel man, and put Ikenna and his son to work in de fields at once. De labour was hard and de days were long; during harvesting season, de owner worked his slaves for sixteen, eighteen hours a day, and if any poor soul collapsed from exhaustion, he was whipped by de masters until he stood again. If he could not rise, then he was beaten until de life flowed from his body.

"This is de fate that befell Ikenna's last son, and when Ikenna tried to intervene, to save his sole surviving child, he was flogged in front of de whole plantation as punishment. And it was then, when he was taken to de plantation house for his flogging, that he learned the fate of his wife. For you see, de plantation owner had taken a fancy to Ikenna's beautiful wife, and decided that she would not serve him in de field, but in… other ways. And so de master took great pleasure in displaying his ownership of Ikenna's wife while de king himself was forced to watch, tied to de flogging post and unable to look away.

"Ikenna, a proud warrior but a shrewd leader, knew that there was nothing he could do chained to de post, but determined he would have revenge for his wife and children. And so he spoke to de other slaves, and told them that if they worked together, acted as one, then they could slay de masters with their machetes in de field, then advance upon de house, kill de plantation owner within, and claim their freedom. De rebellion would take place on de day after de full moon, and Ikenna directed himself to de task of winning back his freedom.

"When de day arrived, Ikenna gave de call, and all de slaves in de field rose up together and slaughtered de overseers. Filled with de glory of battle, Ikenna raised his machete high, and led his fellow slaves to de plantation house, where they would have their revenge, and Ikenna would rescue his wife and reclaim his freedom.

"But de plantation owner, who had suspected such a thing, had summoned soldiers to guard his home. As de rebellious men descended on de great house, de soldiers opened fire, and they were cut down, leaving only Ikenna and a small band of survivors. Ikenna, determined at least to set his wife free, advanced on de house – only to find her body, lashed to a tree, her skin flayed from a fatal flogging, left there as a message to de rebellious slaves.

"Thus Ikenna, once a proud and noble king, once a happy man with a loving family, had at last had everything taken from him. In his despair and rage, he fled from de house and into de trees. Any soldiers who tried to stop him were cut down into ribbons by de strength of his rage. And so Ikenna ran and ran, deeper and deeper into de jungle, until at last he collapsed, howling his sorrow and his pain into de night. There was only one thing left for him now.

"Ikenna wandered the forest, searching in vain for one who could give him what he needed, until at last he chanced upon de home of a priestess, who, like him, had escaped de clutches of de white man and his whip. He told his tale to de priestess, and vowed that he would have his revenge on de men who captured him, stole his freedom, and murdered his family –but he would use their own greed to destroy them.

"And so Ikenna submitted to a dark ritual, one that is seldom spoken of – de binding of his soul to a totem, so that his hatred would live forever. For Ikenna's heart, once so proud and just and noble, was now shrunken and blackened, twisted by rage and pain, and his soul, once so animated by love, was now full of evil intent. Ikenna took the ritual knife and cut out his own heart, and de priestess transformed his beating heart into a stone, a stone containing all of Ikenna's hate and rage. But de stone was deceptively beautiful, and de priestess knew that, once discovered, it would be sought after by all. So she took de stone, encased it in a golden broach, and strung it around a golden necklace, and, disguising herself as a servant, had it delivered to Ikenna's old master as a 'gift' from an anonymous benefactor.

"Being a greedy man, de master was well pleased to receive such a fine gift, and he gave it to his wife. His wife, who delighted in jewels and trinkets, wore it every day, and it was not long before a shadow began to overtake her spirit. She began to suspect her husband of infidelity, and became certain that he had acquired de stone from a mistress and had given it to her as a form of mockery. As de days went on, a blackness grew in her heart, and with it, a sense of purpose and direction that she, being a foolish and shallow woman, had never before known. De stone worked its magic, and de evil festered in her soul, bit by bit, until she became convinced that her children were plotting with her husband to murder her and replace her with his mistress. And so it was that, one night, she took up a great cleaver's knife from de kitchen and slew her husband and children in their beds, along with any servants she could find.

"One servant escaped, and the following day de magistrates came to arrest her for murder. De gaoler, a covetous and dishonest man, saw de stone around her neck and determined that it must be quite valuable indeed. Before throwing her in de cell, he ripped the stone from around her neck and stole it for himself, before locking her away in de gaol.

"But you see… once de stone was gone from around de woman's neck, de spell was broken, and de full truth of what she had done struck her at once. Overcome by despair, she tore her dress asunder and hanged herself in her cell, where she was discovered de next day.

"And so de Totem of Ikenna has passed from hand to hand, bringing death, ruin, and destruction to each of its owners in turn, de curse of King Ikenna reaping his vengeance across all de Caribbean. I had in truth lost track of its whereabouts, until you came to me today. And now that you know de story, you know de incredible danger that this totem possesses. For while it concentrates its owner's will and focuses his strength, it exacts a terrible price, a price that is always paid in blood."

James was still for several long moments as the full horror of the tale sunk in. After his experience with the pirates rendered undead by the cursed Aztec gold, he had no reason to doubt the veracity of the legend of the Totem of Ikenna, but he had not expected a chronicle of such malevolence and evil. Brodie's lust for the object was clearer now; besides being a rare and magical artefact, it was said to bolster the power and strength of its possessor, something Brodie would surely covet. And yet…

"If the totem brings death and destruction to all who possess it, then why would anyone seek it out?" James asked. "If Brodie acquires the totem, then it sounds as though his days are numbered regardless. Perhaps I should simply let him have it so that he may be the author of his own doom."

A hint of the old mocking smile returned to Tia Dalma's face. "It is possible that your Brodie does not know of de… shall we say… downside of possessing de Totem of Ikenna. It is an artefact that is still largely shrouded in legend, and not many know of de whole tale. You are perhaps one of de few living who do." She paused, deep in thought, poking at her fire with a long, brittle piece of driftwood. "It is also possible that he knows, but believes himself to be of stronger will than de previous owners, that he might harness de power of de totem where others have failed. He would not be de first to make such a mistake of hubris and he will not be de last."

She looked up from her fire, her eyes finding his in stern reproach. "But make no mistake; de totem is not content with sacrificing de life of its possessor. It serves instead to inspire him to evil purpose, to wreak a great deal of havoc and cruelty upon de lives of innocents; it only discards its owner when this purpose has been accomplished, and it desires instead to move to new hands, to find a new killing ground. Such is de terrible power of Ikenna's vengeance. If your Brodie is as dangerous as you say, then he could do a great deal of damage with de totem under his control. A great deal, indeed."

James swallowed hard. At last, he knew what the Totem of Ikenna was and why Brodie sought it, but the answer troubled him far more than the question had. Brodie hardly needed any supernatural impetus to inspire him to malicious intent; how much more vicious and cruel would he be with such an artefact around his neck, working its evil magic upon what passed for his heart?

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "My duty is clear. I must stop Brodie from acquiring the totem at all costs. I thank you for your hospitality and your information."

The witch smiled enigmatically at him. "Then I suggest you waste no more time with little ol' me, _mon capitaine_. Every moment you idle is a moment that brings your Brodie closer to de totem. But take care," she said, as he turned to leave, "that you do not fall prey to de totem yourself. You would not be de first man of good intentions to find your heart turned black and twisted by its evil. It is an incredibly powerful, incredibly dangerous thing, de Totem of Ikenna. It is not safe to wear, not even for a moment. Do not be tempted."

* * *

They made camp just beyond the treeline, aware that there would be no way back to Bridgetown until the first coach arrived at the plantation great house at dawn. James brooded at the fire, cooking a pair of crabs he had found scurrying across the beach, while Elizabeth puttered through the forest, gathering fruit and nuts for their dinner.

"I don't like this," she said for the third time, returning with an armful of mangoes. "It's too dangerous, James. You saw how deadly the Aztec gold was, with the pirates of the _Black Pearl_ – this totem makes the pirate curse sound like a fairy tale."

"What choice do I have?" he growled, his voice low and rough. "You heard the witch. Brodie is a vile enough specimen now; I shudder to think of what evils he might be capable if he were empowered by such a foul enchantment."

"But why does it have to be you?" she exclaimed. "James, you don't always have to be the hero! You're not even in the navy anymore – stopping Brodie is not your duty!"

"And so you have no issue with his treachery, then? You'd serve up England on a platter, to be carved up between France and the Stuart pretender, with no qualms about it?" James burst. "I knew you had romantic fantasies about pirates and villains, but I never imagined you to go so far as to turn a blind eye to treason against your home soil."

"I don't turn a blind eye to it!" she protested hotly. "But the fact remains that Brodie is dangerous, and you should not try to fight him on your own! It is a duty for His Majesty's service – not for one man alone! Tell the navy, tell the army if you must, but for God's sake James –"

"Tell them what?" he said mockingly. "That the captain of the merchant vessel on which I am a lowly foremast jack is a traitor? That I know this because I hid from a jealous husband and overheard a conversation in a tavern in Port-au-Prince? That this traitor seeks a magical trinket that will enable him to dominate the seas and bring doom to England? Oh yes, Elizabeth, that is a brilliant idea. I am sure my petition will be heard directly by the Lord Admiral himself – or perhaps even by His Majesty!"

"Damn it, James, I care about you! I don't want you to get hurt!"

Her exclamation shocked him into silence, and, face reddening at her admission, Elizabeth quickly averted her eyes and began picking intently at the crab he'd cooked. They ate their meagre dinner in quietude, James reeling from the impact of her words on his state of mind. He tore into the soft crab meat, equally perplexed and resentful. She had never understood the notion of duty, and it did not surprise him that she should be so dismissive now. She'd never valued his role as protector of Port Royal, and had eagerly colluded against him with the pirates, believing them to represent some perverted ideal of "freedom" against order, which he, in his stuffy waistcoat and wig, had stood for in all its staid formality. Perhaps – he was willing to admit, in the smallest of increments – her foolish illusions about the "freedom" of piracy had been shattered by the events of her life over the past few years. But she would never understand him, never understand the innate sense of honour that motivated his actions. Perhaps that was why she'd fallen so eagerly into his bed in Tortuga – because he was no longer the stiff and duty-bound commodore, but a rakish and disreputable rogue who followed his appetites and desires as freely as she'd followed hers.

Discarding the empty crab shell, he untied his queue and shook out his hair. It didn't matter. He had loved her. He had known she was a free spirit, an unconventional woman in every way, but it hadn't mattered. He'd loved her anyway – but she had never loved him. He'd done everything she asked of him, even to his own ruin, and she'd left him anyway. What right had she now to come back to him, to confuse him like this?

"Why?"

Elizabeth looked up from the fire, where she had been sitting, brooding silently.

"Why what?"

"Why now?" he demanded, looking evenly at her. "After everything you've put me through – everything I've done to myself – why would you tell me that now?"

Elizabeth blinked owlishly at him, before looking away quickly, turning her shoulders so that she faced into the fire. James saw her blinking rapidly, as if holding back tears.

"Because it's true." Her voice, when it came, was so quiet he strained to hear. "I told you that you were right, James, about everything you've said about me. I've been monstrous. I used you to save Will, and I… I didn't even think twice about it. You have to believe I cared for you, James. You have to believe that you were always my friend. But… I was so obsessed with Will. I thought he was so perfect, a beautiful boy with a mysterious past. He was adventure, excitement, danger – everything I wanted. You were comfort, stability, and order… everything I was certain I wanted to escape. I never meant to hurt you so deeply, James, please believe me. I was thoughtless, but not deliberately cruel."

Every word was as a knife in his heart, ripping open old scars, and he stared intently into the fire, not trusting himself to look at her.

"So what changed?" His voice was rough and guttural even to his own ears.

He heard her laugh, though the sound lacked all traces of humour or mirth. "What didn't? You were right about everything you said about the pirates, of course. They were filthy and crude and lacked all semblance of honour, thinking nothing of earning coin by cheating or stealing from honest folk. Sparrow was… I know you hate him, James, but he was different. Not more honourable, but… cleverer, certainly, and he had his own code that he followed, and I respected him. I still do. But the others… Will became preoccupied with asking the _Black Pearl_ pirates to tell him of his father, and that was how he found out about his father's imprisonment by Davy Jones. It was all he could talk about, day and night – rescuing his father. He became angry when I suggested he was spending entirely too much time worrying about a father who abandoned him, and shortly thereafter he informed me that he was off to search for clues to track down Davy Jones, and that it was something he needed to do 'on his own.' He left me there alone – he actually trusted the pirates to take care of me, as if they hadn't once been my captors!"

James frowned into the fire. "Did they harm you?" He resented how protective his voice sounded – Elizabeth was not his to protect, and she never had been.

"No. Well, not in the way you're thinking. But it was miserable. 'Poppet' this and 'poppet' that. Their intentions were plain, and I think it was only for fear of Sparrow and Gibbs that nothing happened. I demanded to be returned to Port Royal, and for a long while I thought Jack wasn't going to let me go – that he was going to keep me as collateral until Will returned. God, James, to have escaped their prison only to return to it voluntarily – what a fool I was. But in the end, he let me go. I think Jack likes me, in a way – as much as he likes anyone, that is." James snorted derisively at the notion of Sparrow being motivated by anything that resembled altruism.

"I returned to Port Royal. Father was of course overjoyed. As much as I welcomed the return of the comforts of my life there, I refused to admit I'd been wrong about anything – about Will, about the pirates… about you. And so as the months passed and Will never returned, I left father a note and snuck out of the house one night, and into the hold of a ship bound for Cuba. I'd recalled it as a place Will had mentioned in his search for clues about Davy Jones, and it was the only lead I had. I found no trace of Will there, but I did find a ship sailing to Tortuga, which offered me passage. It was the only other place I knew to look."

"And that's how you found Brodie," James said.

"And you," she responded quietly. "I was so shocked when I saw you in that tavern, with… er… in your situation."

"With a bottle and a whore?"

"James…" her voice broke. "I never wanted that for you. Please believe me."

He scoffed, tossing a pile of sticks into the fire and sending up a flurry of sparks. "Oh, it wasn't all bad," he drawled. "The whores on Tortuga are lively, merry wenches, who know how to distract a man from the miseries of his life." He grinned at her discomfited expression, the old armour instinctively fitting into place around his heart under any threat of a breach by the siren that was Elizabeth Swann. "Do you know how many of them I had in my vain quest to take my mind off of you, Elizabeth?"

"James –"

"Well, neither do I," he retorted. "I lost count after the first few months. I am not the man you knew, Elizabeth. You can't simply wish away the past three years and remake me into the dull, dutiful commodore who has no thought but attending to your every need. That man is gone."

"Is he?" she challenged. "Because the man who sits before me, who is about to risk his life out of no obligation but the one demanded of him by his conscience and his notions of loyalty and duty, reminds me quite thoroughly of the proud and noble commodore I once knew."

"Elizabeth, I am not – "

"Yes, James," she said, leaving her place by the fire and sitting next to him on the ground. The warmth of her nearness sent a tremor through his blood. "You are. Will was not the bold and free pirate I thought he was, but you were, and remain, the most honourable man I have ever known. I am sorry I did not see you before, the way you are, but I do now. James, I do now."

She reached up and touched her palm against his face, and leaned in to kiss him.

"I do think I miss the beard, however," she whispered impishly before claiming his lips.

He returned her kiss, hesitantly at first, and then passionately, as the sensation of her sweet lips and warm body against his roused a manly response. She pressed herself against him, and he slipped his hands against her sides, feeling her soft curves, and felt himself harden in response. He knew this was foolishness, folly of the highest sort, no matter what words she said –

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice strangled, as he broke away suddenly from her lips, "You cannot turn back the clock and undo what has been done. I can't – "

She leaned in and kissed him again, and he tasted the saline trail of her tears as they spilled down her face and against her lips. "I'm not asking you to love me," she whispered. "I'm going back to Port Royal tomorrow. If you – if something happens to you, with Brodie – I just want you to know that I'm sorry, and that I care for you, and – please, James, just be with me tonight, one last time."

His breath came raggedly as he stared into the face of the woman who had beguiled and bedevilled him for so very long. His heart pounded savagely in his chest as a riot of emotion swept through him in a violent current. The reality of his duty, and of his likely odds of survival, honed his senses into a keenness that was painfully aware of everything around him – every touch of her skin, the sight and taste of her, the smell of her hair, all of it elevated and threatened to overwhelm him.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, his voice cracked and hollow.

But she only shushed him softly, and reclaimed his lips with hers. Her hands found his chest and traced the strong planes of his muscles before sliding under his shirt to caress his bare skin. She pulled his shirt off with a flourish and pulled him on top of her, her fingers tracing his now-familiar scars with gentle insistence. He kissed her deeply and passionately as his hands found their way under her skirts, and, to his quite thorough surprise, she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him off and underneath her, rolling them across the soft forest bed so that now she straddled him, her rapturous curves silhouetted against the darkness by the flickering firelight. She pulled off her dress with quick, deft movements, and as she removed his breeches and slid on top of him, James fixed in his mind the vision of her, a wanton, erotic goddess, her eyes half-closed in ecstasy, her lips parted as she gasped out her pleasure while she rode him to their mutual release.

Afterwards, when she lay in deep slumber, curled up next to him on the forest floor, James found himself restless and unable to sleep. He slid out from under her arms and made his way to the pile of discarded clothes, where he fished the ever-present bottle of rum from his coat pocket. His head swam with sensation. The headiness of lovemaking with Elizabeth; the riot of confusion in his heart over what she meant to him; the dire necessity of stopping Brodie; the cruel fate of King Ikenna and his family: all threatened to overwhelm and drown him. He now knew the stakes; but he had no better idea where the totem was, where Voort was, or how to ensure that Brodie did not find it first. And if Brodie already had the totem, what then? Were they already damned and he just didn't know it yet?

Every answer seemed to open up many more questions in its place. Despairing, James took a thick swig of rum, but then the vision of the slaves in the field, sweat pouring down their bodies, the overseer menacingly brandishing the whip, King Ikenna and his family bound and shackled in the stinking hold of a slave ship, captive bodies suffering endless, pitiless floggings under the cruel lash, came to the forefront of his mind, and the sugar-sweet rum tasted like iron and blood on his tongue. With a snarl, he threw the bottle into the fire, and it shattered with a violent explosion of flame, a brief burst of heat and radiance into the island night, before fading into dying embers.


	14. The Die is Cast

Geers Voort was unmistakably dead. His skin in appearance was now the waxy pallor of the deceased, the bloodlessness offset only by the jagged red gash that rent his throat from ear to ear, leaving his head tilted at an unnatural and nearly perpendicular angle to his torso. Fortunately, as evinced by the seaweed matted into his thick blonde hair and the strong briny odour that emanated from the corpse, Voort had been underwater for most of the past several days, and had thus escaped the rapid putrefaction that would have left him considerably more pungent had he been left to rot in the tropical air of Barbados. Enough discernible character remained in his features to mirror the descriptions James had gathered to a satisfactory degree: here was a slightly built man with long waves of blonde hair – though whether the eyes were grey or not, no one would ever be able to say, for they were now, in death, veiled by a milky sheen that gave the corpse a decidedly unsettling mien.

"Yes, he washed ashore late last night just south of Fort Charles," the surgeon told James, who stood, in mute despair, over the body of the man he'd found too late. "A solider on sentry duty discovered the poor blighter, and he was brought here to the morgue whilst we attempted to determine who he was and whether he had any family who might be missing him. Poor sod most likely crossed the wrong jack at a hand of cards and paid for it with his life. Such brutalities are sadly not uncommon among the baser sort who patronize the seedier quarters of this island."

James was barely listening to the army surgeon, who continued to opine unctuously about the sordid habits of the seafaring underclass. It had been six days since he'd bidden farewell to Elizabeth, six days marked by an increasingly desperate and fruitless search for Voort and for the Totem of Ikenna, and to see it end in such miserable failure, with Voort dead and the totem nowhere to be found, was a crushing blow. Brodie had been several steps ahead of him from the very beginning; perhaps he'd even found Voort, taken the totem, and killed him that very first night in Bridgetown, the night James had spent wiling away the hours with Polly.

_God rot it all,_ James thought bitterly. Perhaps that had been his error, in thinking that he could act on his own, somehow intercept Voort and the totem before it fell into Brodie's clutches; he'd come at everything half-cocked and without a real plan and had nothing to show for it but the corpse of a Dutchman.

"I don't suppose there was anything on his body, when you found him – no jewellery, personal tokens, anything of that nature?"

"No, nothing. Whatever of value he possessed was no doubt purloined by the villain who took his life." The surgeon narrowed his eyes suddenly and regarded James with an air of distaste. "And not that I would simply give it away to you if there had been! Why, sir, you intimated to me that your enquiries into this poor soul's demise were of a legitimate nature! If you have come here merely to thieve from the dead, do not think to make me your accomplice in such a foul deed!"

"I have not come to steal from the dead! I –" But James had no intention of telling the priggish army surgeon about the Totem of Ikenna, nor of the identity of Voort's killer. He knew such an outlandish tale would never be believed, and would serve only to cast him in a suspicious light. The surgeon clearly trusted him little enough as it was. "I know – knew – of this man. His name is Geers Voort and he is a Dutch trader from Aruba. He has a wife there, and since there is nothing of value left in Voort's possession, I believe your conscience may be relieved by granting him a Christian burial and ensuring that his widow is notified of her husband's demise. I had only hoped that his… killer… had left behind something of value for the poor lady."

The surgeon's lips were pressed together in a firm, disapproving line, but his eyes un-narrowed ever so slightly. "Indeed. So you say, sir. Well, as you can see, nothing was left behind. You can hardly be surprised, what with all the vagabonds and rogues prowling these streets. And now if you will excuse me, _I_ have work to do. Some of us must earn an honest keep on this island, you may believe, sir."

James was all too happy to leave the pompous surgeon behind as he returned to the warm sunshine of the late Barbados afternoon. The balmy, pleasant weather served as a distinct counterpoint to his blackened mood. For there was no sugar-coating his failure: despite all his attempts to ferret out Voort, to reach the Dutchman before Brodie did and thus deprive his treacherous captain of the prize he so eagerly sought, he had failed, and now a man was dead and Brodie held in his possession an artefact that would inspire him to even more malevolent and savage villainy.

He had been the worst sort of fool to believe that he could do anything useful. Hadn't he learned long ago that his fate was written in the stars, and that no glory or laurels awaited him? He was a failure – a miserable, washed-up disappointment, a man whose poor judgment had gotten brave men killed and seen a villainous pirate go free. A shipwrecked Tortuga wretch who did what it took to scrape up the meagre gold to pay for his room, his drink, and his whores. That was his inescapable destiny; that was what he was and what he would always be. How stupid he'd been to imagine that his old life's dreams might actually have come to be after all – defending his king and country with honour and valour, winning the heart of the woman he loved! It had all been an illusion, a cruel lie, and James knew better now. He should have always known better.

He found himself, as the sun dipped closer to the seaward horizon, on the steps of one of the myriad shabby and disreputable inns he'd canvassed in his long and fruitless search for Voort. The Dockside Arms, appropriately named as it occupied the southernmost fringe of Bridgetown's dockyards. It was a seaman's bar through and through, the kind he'd become so intimately acquainted with during those long, hard years in Tortuga. It felt like a bitter homecoming. He stepped inside and headed straight for the row of bottles against the far wall.

"Barman!" he bellowed, sliding onto a rickety, poorly-built stool at the corner of the bar. "A bottle of your strongest rum, and be quick about it!" With a careless shrug, the barkeep, a lumpy mountain of a man with an apelike sloping forehead, grabbed a brown bottle from the top shelf and clinked it unceremoniously down in front of James, who placed two coppers on the bar in return. Uncorking the bottle, he took a long, slow draught, and felt the tension begin to recede. The rum soothed his nerves and calmed his worries, and he took another pull, feeling the liquor coursing through his blood. Yes, this was just what he needed. A balm for the spirits. He drank steadily and with a dogged determination, and before long his bottle was over half empty.

He heard the door creak open, and, swaying slightly on his wobbly stool, he turned around to witness a pair of dolled-up tarts swagger in, heading for a table near the centre of the tavern, no doubt to ply their wares and catch the eye of any lonely sailor who wandered in. One of them caught his eye and leered appreciatively, and the old, familiar manly response burned through his blood. A sudden, unbidden thought of Elizabeth came to him, and a surge of something that, infuriatingly, felt like guilt seethed through him. Face burning, he turned away from the trollop, nearly falling from his unsteady stool in the process. He took another long, vigorous pull of rum to quiet his raging thoughts.

After her perplexing and thoroughly unsettling confession and their night of passionate lovemaking, Elizabeth had been quiet and subdued on the carriage ride back to Bridgetown the following morning. Turner, good as his word, was waiting there with a small sloop bound for Port Royal, and James had noted with a secret glee the strained, murderous look in Turner's eyes as Elizabeth placed her hand on his cheek and bid him farewell. There was no farewell kiss, nor any promise of undying love or a lifetime of tomorrows; she had merely caressed his cheek, given him an odd look that he hadn't known what to make of, and turned to the gangway of Turner's ship without looking back. What was he to make of her? Did she love him? Did it even matter anymore? James took another pull on the rum, emptying the bottle as the liquor tempered his guilt into a solid core of frustration. Elizabeth was on her way back to Port Royal where she belonged; with her father and her comfortable lifestyle and her servants and maids and a bright future. A future that did not, could not, could never include a driftless derelict like him. James rapped a knuckle sharply on the bar, gesturing for another bottle from the oafish barkeep. Leaving a coin on the bar, he swallowed a mouthful of rum and unsteadily clambered to his feet, catching the eye of the nearest doxy and giving her a sly wink as he ambled over to their table.

"Well, Moll, look what we got here, 'ey? A fine-lookin' sailor come to join us! You just sit right down, luv – we'll take right good care o' ye, ain't that right, Moll?" The whore, who might have been pretty under her thick layer of face paint, leered at James as he sat beside her, and ventured a bold hand to stroke him purposefully along his upper thigh. A rush of pleasure suffused through him and he grinned around his bottle of rum, his own free hand reaching out to trace the scandalously-low top of the whore's bodice.

"Oi, ye're a bold one, ain'tcha?" The whore tittered as James's fingers worked gently but persistently at the thin fabric that barely held her bosom in check, and she intercepted his hand with a mild tsk-tsk. "Now it ain't that I don't appreciate yer ardour, but I gots to earn me crust, see?" She held out a hand, expectantly awaiting his coin.

"Of course," he said smoothly, reaching into his pocket to search for a copper. She wasn't Polly, and so didn't deserve a shilling, but once his money from the _Sagitta_ ran out, he wouldn't be able to afford Polly, anyway. He shrugged to himself – he had been content enough with two-bit whores and bottom-barrel rum on Tortuga, hadn't he? The island might be different, but the life was the same. The only life he deserved.

He had just located the copper and had withdrawn it from his pocket to place in the doxy's hand when a familiar Yorkshire drawl made a most unwelcome intrusion.

"Mr. Norrington! I've been searching up and down Bridgetown for you, you may believe it – I, oh, well, er, I don't mean to interrupt your business, now…"

Tom Riggins' friendly voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence as he observed James's less than reputable company, but he made no effort to move away. The whores recovered from their initial consternation at the intrusion to turn batted eyes towards the newcomer.

"Why, hullo there, handsome," the one called Moll cooed at Riggins. "Yer friend here was just about to enjoy hisself a nice evenin' – now as you can see, there be two o' us and one o' him, and that leaves plenty o' fun left over fer you, dear."

"I, er…" It was obvious that Riggins was seldom so boldly propositioned by such tartish ladies. "Well, I do hate to interrupt your, er, honest living, ladies, but it's important I speak to my friend, here. We've some, well, some business to discuss."

James watched in mute exasperation as the doxies, realizing that they weren't going to get anywhere with James or his new friend any time soon, huffed in impatience and unceremoniously abandoned the table, leaving him alone with the red-faced Riggins. James spun around to face Riggins, his drunken anger mounting by the second.

"What the bloody devil did you do that for? Could you not see that I was in the process of courting those winsome lasses?" He took a restive swig of rum, glaring at Riggins all the while as the other man sat down heavily in the chair so recently vacated by the whore.

"With all due respect, Mr. Norrington, that ain't what I call courting," he said uneasily. Rubbing at his tawny hair with a wide, meaty paw, Riggins gave James a worried, almost paternal look. "Forgive my manners, it ain't my business to say, but, well…" He gestured wordlessly in the direction of the whores, who had set up camp across from a table of rowdy sailors. "Well, it's just that you're not a bad sort, Norrington. You're easy enough on the eyes, I suppose, as a lady might see it. You certainly got a prettier mug than me, that's for certain. I just, well… don't you ever get lonely and tired of consortin' only with doxies? Don't you want to find a nice lady to love and settle down with?"

James glared balefully at Riggins as he took a determined pull on his bottle of rum. Here he'd just come to peace with his fate, and now the obnoxious, meddling quartermaster of his soon-to-be-former ship had taken it upon himself to stir up all his doubts and failures. "I was in love once," he growled at the other man. "It didn't work out. I prefer the honesty of whores. You give them coin, they give you a tumble. Simpler that way."

Riggins shook his head slowly. "I don't know about that. I haven't found a lady love myself, but… I don't think to give up hope, neither. I'm sorry your lady wasn't true to you, but as I see it, that's no reason to give up on love. Er, not that it's any of my business, that is," he added hurriedly as James' glower darkened from baleful to murderous.

"You're god-damned right it isn't any of your business," he snarled, swilling from his bottle. "Why are you here? Go back to the ship and lick Brodie's bootheels and leave me in peace."

Riggins' eyes widened, unaccustomed to the hostility in James' tone. "Well, that's why I've come looking for you, Mr. Norrington – the Captain returned to ship last night, and says as we'll be ready to leave port by tomorrow at dawn. I asked around with the other jacks, and none of them had seen hide nor hair of you since we made port. I thought to come looking for you so you didn't miss us when we shipped out. I'd hate to leave you behind."

_The Captain_. James felt a deep, primal loathing fill his being at the mere thought of Andrew Brodie, no doubt now proudly sporting the Totem of Ikenna and, of equal certainty, already being bent and corrupted to its evil purpose, quite apart from his own. He looked at Riggins in disgust. Had the oaf even noticed the totem, or cared what it meant? Of course not. Brodie was just a peculiar, if demanding, captain who paid well above the market rate for his merchant jacks – why would any of them think to question their good fortune?

"Your concern is misplaced," he said coldly, quaffing his bottle of rum. "I won't be rejoining you. I will take no more of Andrew Brodie's blood money, by God – I may 'consort with doxies' but I have never taken a woman against her will!" He coloured visibly, the heat rising to his face as he realized what he'd let slip. Hell and damnation, the rum had robbed him of his senses far too soon!

"Taken a woman against her will? What the deuce are you talking about, Norrington?" Riggins was all befuddlement and perplexity; James fought the urge to slap the cow-like look of bewilderment off of his face.

"Never you mind," James snarled, pushing his chair back and trying, unsuccessfully at first, to rise to his feet. He needed another bottle of rum. "You're a loyal lapdog. Go back to your master. Go on, then! Shoo! Woof woof!" He shoved hard at Riggins, aiming to push him out of his chair and out the door.

Without warning, and with a rapidity and dexterity of movement James would never have expected from the stocky man, Riggins lifted James by his coat, spun around, and slammed him against the tavern wall. The barkeeper grunted in mild alarm, but Riggins, whose face was hot with anger, paid him no heed.

"Now you listen here, I don't have to put up with those kinds of insults from you, Norrington," he said. "The last I knew, you were a good, reliable hand and a decent sort of fellow. Now I find you in here, stinkin' of rum and cheap women and full of foul words for me and the captain? Something's changed, and I'll know what's got you in such an outrage, I will. Like it or not, I've considered you a friend, and I won't leave you be until I know what's got stuck in your craw so bad that you'd walk away from good coin to waste yourself here."

James met Riggins' angry glare with his own, but the other man's words niggled into his brain and took stubborn hold. Riggins had just said that he considered James a friend. _A friend_. James hadn't had a proper friend since his other life – and, to own the truth, even longer than that. He'd been so accustomed to being alone, making his own decisions, going his own way, that the notion that someone cared for him, not merely as a captain or a warrior, but as a person, as a _friend_ – that was something new and unexpected. And for such friendship to be offered without manipulation, complications, or baggage, as Elizabeth's had been?

James stared hard into Riggins' open face. Riggins was not a complicated fellow – he appeared to trust others easily, even implicitly. He clearly had suspected nothing amiss with Brodie, but was that a result of collusion or oafishness, as James had assumed, or just a natural by-product of the man's credulous nature?

But James had learned the hard way that to have blind faith in anyone was to invite disaster. "I find at the moment that I'm not inclined to trust a man who serves at the right hand of Andrew Brodie," he said.

Riggins glowered at him for another moment, and James was certain that he'd calculated rightly – that Riggins was not to be trusted. Then, sagging, the burly man dropped James' coat and a look of wary resignation stole across his features.

"I think you misunderstand my role aboard the ship, Mr. Norrington," he began hesitantly. "I'm the quartermaster, it's true, but… well, Captain Brodie doesn't take me into his confidence, as you might say. He's professional and courteous with me, business-as-usual, that sort of thing, nothing more. I don't know what he's done to upset you, but I'm sure I don't know anything about it."

"Upset?" James scoffed. "Upset is not the right word for what I feel regarding the sins of Andrew Brodie, Mr. Riggins, that you may believe." Dusting off his coat, he adjusted it around his shoulders and again felt the keen dilemma – to trust Riggins or not? The part of his brain that was sodden with rum reminded him that he'd decided to wash his hands of the whole affair not fifteen minutes before, to return to his simple, uncomplicated, rum-and-wench fuelled existence, and that it was madness, especially given that Brodie of a certainty had the totem, to do otherwise. But the part of him that he'd tried to drown with rum, the part that had felt so keenly the despair and hopelessness of his failure upon discovering Geers Voort's corpse, whispered that, perhaps, if he could find an ally, then the impossible might be possible after all.

"God rot your eyes, Riggins!" he swore, picking up his bottle and draining it of rum before slamming it down on the table. "How can you have served with the man for years and yet be blind to what is right in front of you?"

"I have no earthly idea what you could mean, Mr. Norrington! Blind to what? Listen, I –" Riggins flushed a bright scarlet as he weighed his next words. "I suspect that not all of Captain Brodie's business deals are, as you should say, above board. He's a secretive fellow, the captain. Won't tell me the names of most of his 'business associates,' insists on inspecting the cargo himself alone, that sort of thing. But…" Riggins trailed off, as if debating whether to divulge a piece of sensitive information to the man who'd just heaped rum-soaked invective upon him.

"Well, I suppose you've got the right to know, me bargin' in here and demanding you account for yourself," he said, his voice carrying more than a little guilt. "But… well, to own the truth, when I met Andrew Brodie, I was in irons." James goggled at Riggins in shock: the notion of the mild-mannered, easygoing man before him as a prisoner was almost inconceivable, and was entirely unexpected. "I… er, well, I didn't exactly take to a strictly honest path in my early seagoing career. And the kinds of things I did got the wrong sort of attention from the government revenue men. My crew got caught up in a snare and we all ended up in shackles on our way to prison or the press-gang. I was in the back of the wagon when I get hauled out, halfway to London, and there's Andrew Brodie, standing before me, and dropping a very generous pile of coins into the palm of the revenue man who'd been charged with seeing us to prison. For some reason I still don't know, Brodie only wanted me, not any of my mates. And so they're likely to be still rotting away in Newgate while I make prime coin as a trusted merchant jack." Riggins flushed with shame. "So if I've been willing to look the other way about Captain Brodie's cargo, well, hopefully now you understand a bit more about why. 'Twould be a mort two-faced of me to stand in judgment, and, well, he saved me from dying of gaol-fever in a stinking prison cell, so, way I figure it, I owe him my freedom."

Riggins had been a smuggler. And not only that, but Andrew Brodie had bribed the revenue official into letting him go into Brodie's service – thus neatly earning himself an experienced, talented seaman hand whose generous, honest nature ensured that he would consider himself to be in eternal debt to his new captain. It was brilliant in its simplicity, and as James digested Riggins' tale, other, previously isolated pieces of knowledge began to fall into place.

"He secured your services knowing you would never question him out of a sense of loyalty to the man who'd saved you from a terrible fate," James said, almost to himself. And Wells… stuck in debtor's prison until Brodie hired him on as a hand. Simple Pete, an idiot incapable of grasping anything that went on around him to any sophisticated degree. Himself: a Tortuga drunkard who'd left the Royal Navy in disgrace, his reputation in tatters. A veritable circus of misfits, men who had no other opportunities or ambitions in life, men who would be grateful for the generous coin Brodie provided, knowing they were unlikely to find it so good anywhere else. Men who would not be missed if something happened to them.

"Like I said, Mr. Norrington, I ain't especially proud of it," Riggins said, still flushed with embarrassment. "But if it wasn't for Andrew Brodie, I'd be dead or in irons. That counts for something."

"Of course it does," James said, struggling to connect all of the dots through the fog of rum in his head. "That's what _he_ was counting on, don't you see? A crew of men with chequered pasts, no families, no greater loyalties – men who won't question where their coin comes from or why, or what else their captain might do to earn it! He's had free reign to do as he does, knowing you all would look the other way!"

"I suppose that makes sense, when you put it like that," Riggins said, still shamefaced. "But, beggin' your pardon, I know smuggling ain't right and all, but is it really so bad as to warrant all this hullabaloo? Now maybe that's just the navy man in you talkin', but – "

Of course. Riggins still didn't see it – he was convinced that the extent of Brodie's crimes were simple smuggling operations. "This is not about smuggling, Tom," James said, unconsciously slipping into the familiar use of Riggins' Christian name. For better or worse… now was the time to cast the die. "No, there is something far more evil afoot. You've never seen Mrs. Brodie, have you?"

"Mrs. Brodie?" Riggins' brow creased in confusion. "No, but then again, none of us has. The Captain always said as how she gets terrible seasick, and ain't comfortable around the jacks, and I suppose I thought it a mort odd how she never comes up for the fresh air, but…" His voice trailed off as he began to put together the pieces of the conversation. "You're saying… you're saying as how she ain't really his wife?"

James closed his eyes, the rum coursing through his blood, as he stood on the edge of the precipice. It wasn't too late to walk away, to say that he'd been mistaken, that it had been the rum talking, to tell Riggins to leave him be and go straight back to the bar, buy another bottle, and return to the saucy tarts who'd beckoned him earlier. He could go back to being a drunken, whoring nobody waiting for death to claim him. It would be easier.

He opened his eyes. It would be easier – and he would never forgive himself. Never forgive himself for turning his back on his country in its great peril. Never forgive himself for abandoning Niamh to her fate. Perhaps his fate was written in the stars, and perhaps it would all yet end badly, but – he took a deep, steadying breath – it was not to be a fate as a drunken, shiftless scoundrel. He would not abandon his country – or an innocent woman – in their times of greatest need.

"No, she is not," he said. "She is his captive. No better than a slave. He murdered her husband and kidnapped her – that's why he won't let her go topside or speak to anyone else. And, what's more, Brodie is a traitor. That mysterious cargo he's carrying isn't smuggled rum – it is weapons and supplies for a Jacobite uprising. He's working with the French to depose King George and restore the pretender to the throne – and if that happens, God save every free-born Englishman who has no wish to suffer under the yoke of an absolutist tyrant."

And so he told a stunned Riggins the whole tale: how he had defied Riggins' admonitions and sought out Niamh's company, only to discover her terrible secret; how he had chanced upon Brodie's meeting with the French military collaborators who were supplying him with the arms and munitions that would later be given to Brodie's fellow revolutionaries in the King's dominions; how Brodie had sought and acquired the Totem of Ikenna, which would make him even more terrible and dangerous than he already was. He had debated whether to tell Riggins about the totem, but once the tale began, he found that he could omit nothing – if he was going to trust Riggins, if Riggins was going to trust him, then he needed to know exactly what Brodie was capable of.

"My God," Riggins breathed. "I'll own that I was never driven to be a king's man, comin' from the profession I did, but I'd never support overthrowing the king himself, God save him! And of course, that poor woman… I should've known that there was something more to Brodie's story that she was seasick and scared!" He looked stricken as he contemplated the magnitude of his captain's evil. "You must think I'm the greatest fool in the world, Norrington, to have all of this going on right under my nose and still not sniff it out! And, well, I suppose that you'd be right. It all makes sense now. I remember…" His voice trailed off, as pieces of his own recollection began to fit in with James' narrative, completing the larger puzzle that was Andrew Brodie. "I told you I'd never seen her before… well, that's strictly true, but, well, I've _heard_ her." James furrowed his eyebrows in understanding – that too was how he'd first been alerted to Niamh's presence on board the _Sagitta_.

"I was with some new men at the mizzenmast one night, making sure they knew what they were doing with the blocks and tackles, when out of the darkness I heard the most sadly-sounding cry you ever did hear. The men up top didn't hear anything, but I knew it wasn't just the wind keenin' – it was a woman's voice. And what's more, I saw Captain Brodie notice it too, he bein' over on the quarterdeck. He went down to his cabin, and surely enough, the cryin' stopped a few minutes later. I suppose the whole thing had me curious, so I asked him what had been makin' that noise – an innocent enough question, I thought. But oh, he got frightfully mad, he did. Told me that his wife was aboard, and she was a delicate creature, lonely and seasick and a bit touched, if he was being honest, but that bein' near him was the only thing that kept her from falling entirely into madness. That sometimes she cried out like that when the madness gripped her. And that's when he told me that she was terrified of the other men, and that if I liked to keep my hide, I'd say nothing about her and pretend I'd never heard nothing. That was the only time the captain ever threatened me so. At the time, I suppose, I just took him for his word that he had a mad, lonely wife, but now…" He shook his great shaggy head in dismay. "Now it all makes sense. My God, to know that he was keeping that poor woman against her will all those years – it makes me sick to think that it was going on right underneath my own feet."

James shook his head slowly. "Even I didn't suspect the full extent of Brodie's evil until I discovered his treasonous conspiracy. Once I knew about Niamh, I resolved to do everything I could to stop him. But it hardly matters now. Now he has the totem and he will be unstoppable."

"Well, you can't just go giving up now, Mr. Norrington!" Riggins implored. "Not now that you know what he's capable of – what he means to do!"

"It doesn't matter, don't you see?" James said bitterly. "I tried to thwart him, in vain. I failed just as I failed to capture Jack Sparrow, just as I failed my men on the _Dauntless_. Perhaps now that you know the truth about Andrew Brodie, you can succeed where I could not, but –"

"Enough of this nonsense, now!" Riggins interrupted. "This is the man who saved the _Sagitta_ from a certain doom at the maw of a hurricane. Whatever mistakes you might have made when you were in the navy, well – now you've got to let the past lie, Mr. Norrington. If you'd wanted to turn your back on what Brodie's done, you could have gone and done that – been long gone afore now. But you didn't leave. I know you want to stop his evil plans, Norrington, and, so help me, I believe you can. And I'll bear a hand however I can. But I'm no leader. I can't do this myself. I… well, I need you. Your country needs you, and that poor woman needs you."

James stared, unspeaking, at Riggins for several long moments. _I believe you can_. Riggins' words echoed through his head, and James stopped to consider – truly consider – the last time anyone had had faith in him.

But it hadn't been so long ago, had it? Hadn't Elizabeth said the same thing to him only six nights before? That she believed he was still the man he'd once been, the gallant officer who'd been willing to put his life on the line for king and country, to do what was right? If others had ever lost faith in him, it was because he had lost faith in himself. Just as he'd been ready to do again tonight after his failure to find Voort in time.

And he had failed Voort, without a doubt. But to surrender now, to allow Brodie to continue his rapacious villainy uncontested; no, James Norrington could not abide that. Even if the totem did make Brodie unstoppable, and even if opposing him would result in certain death. He knew, as surely as he'd ever known anything, that he could not turn away now.

"Then we will do what it takes to end Andrew Brodie's reign of terror," he said, straightening himself to a rigid naval posture. "You are, of course, correct, Mr. Riggins. I will not stand by and allow this peril to my country to go unchecked. And an innocent woman languishes in captivity while we waste time bandying words." He straightened his coat. "You may have my solemn word that I will do everything in my power, as long as I draw breath, to end Brodie's menace, whatever it may cost me. Can I count on you to do your part?" He did not realize that he'd unconsciously slipped back into the language of naval command, but the words and their significance were not lost on his companion, who broke into a broad smile.

"You can count on me until the very end, Mr. Norrington. I've turned a blind eye to Brodie for far too long, and that poor lass has suffered for it. I've some atoning to do." Riggins thrust out a massive hand, and Norrington shook it gravely; a pact had been made, and there was no going back.

"Aye, we both do, I suppose," James said grimly. "Now, I need to know who among the crew is trustworthy and who will be loyal to Brodie. Once we return to the ship, it will be difficult to speak so openly – and we'll need to have a plan in place if we mean to move before Brodie can carry out his treason."

The die was cast; the Rubicon crossed. James could only pray that the stout hearts and iron wills of a motley band of English sailors could prevail against a wicked traitor who now had the power of a malignant, supernatural evil at his command.


	15. Mad Dogs and Englishmen

"Oh, don't leave yet, love, we've got a whole morning ahead of us."

James groaned as a lissome arm winded its way down his chest to come to a teasing rest against the side of his hip. He had no wish to extricate himself from such a comforting embrace; but he knew, with a bone-deep instinct honed from years of sailing into battle, that could tarry no longer.

"And how I wish I could spend it with you lovely ladies," he said ruefully, slipping out from under Polly's arm, and placating Katie's displeased whimper with a soft kiss. "But alas, duty calls, I am afraid." He eased himself out of bed with a sigh and began to collect his errant clothing. No more had thoughts of drunken dissipation as an escape from his past tempted him, not after Riggins had shaken him out of his desperate melancholy; but that did not mean he felt it necessary to deny himself one final pleasure before heading into the maw of the storm.

"Pity," Polly pouted. "Do remember us the next time you sail into Bridgetown, handsome."

James smiled at the two ladies who had introduced him to such delights as he had never before known.

"I am certain I shall," he assured them with a smile. Shrugging on his coat, he savoured one final, lustful grin each from the amorous Polly and Katie before slipping out of the boudoir and towards the destiny that inevitably awaited him.

Out on the street, the sultry echoes of last night's endless pleasures dissipated in the morning chill, replaced by a growing sense of unease and – if James were honest with himself – a not-inconsequential amount of shame. He shook the latter from his shoulders with a grimace – while reminiscences of Elizabeth no longer brought the raw stab of pain they once had, his feelings toward her had become even more confused and muddled in the past week than ever before. She had not told him that she loved him, nor promised that she would wait for him; in truth, he had no reason to feel any more shame for cavorting with the likes of Polly and Katie than he had had before his latest rendezvous with his erstwhile fiancée. And yet, a sense of – not quite _guilt_ , but perhaps regret – gnawed quietly at him regardless.

He shook his head fiercely as he trooped up the streets of Bridgetown away from the brothel, toward the keening of the gulls that marked the extensive dockworks along Carlisle Bay. His feelings about Elizabeth, and hers for him, no longer mattered. He did not know if he would ever see her again, even assuming he survived the coming storm. Though she had, in her own way, made peace with her betrayal of him, it had seemed to James as though she had merely wanted to close the book on that particular painful chapter of her life – and it was likely that any future chapters did not include him.

But that no longer mattered. His relationship with Elizabeth, tangled and tattered though it was, was a thing of the past. And whatever future he might have depended entirely upon what happened aboard the _Sagitta_ in the coming days.

And there was the ship herself, her masts tall and proud as they soared above the softly lapping waters of Carlisle Bay. James felt a pang of sympathy: such a beautiful, majestic vessel as the _Sagitta_ should never be disgraced and sullied as an instrument of treason. If he had his way, she would soon be liberated from her cruel master and Brodie's villainy would be put to an end. Assuming he could separate those aboard whom he could trust from Brodie's faithful lackeys. And assuming there were enough true and loyal Englishman to turn aside those who had thrown in their lot with Brodie and his treason. And assuming he could take the ship without risking harm to Niamh, or without incurring too high a cost in the blood of those who would be following him into battle.

That was the problem, James reflected darkly as he mounted the gangway and ambled aboard the ship. There were too many assumptions and not enough certainties. But then again, when were there ever certainties in war?

"Ah, Mr. Norrington, so pleased to see you could join us after all. And here I was afraid we were going to have to make sail without you."

The Scotch burr, always a source of mild consternation, now sent a violent chill down James's spine. Rooted to the spot, he turned cautiously towards the quarterdeck, where Brodie stood, arms akimbo, as if he'd been waiting especially for James. Nothing had changed about the tall Scot, resplendent as ever in his burgundy greatcoat and fine clothes – nothing save the prominent, smooth stone, encased in an intricately gilded broach, that now hung from his neck by a delicate gold chain.

"What's the matter, Norrington? Still drunk, are we?" James suppressed a shiver; perhaps it was merely his imagination, spurred by his knowledge of the true evil contained within the Totem of Ikenna, but Brodie seemed even more threatening, more malignant, in his humour than he ever had even in his most mercurially irate moods.

"Ah… like my pendant, do you?" James's blood ran cold as Brodie reached up to caress the totem. "It was a recent acquisition. And a devil of a time I had getting my hands on it, you may believe! It will be a lovely addition to my collection, don't you think, Mr. Norrington?"

James felt his mouth go dry as Brodie's unblinking black eyes met his. Did Brodie know?

"It is certainly very striking indeed," James replied cagily, hoping against hope that his demeanour did not betray him. He did not know, even now, whether Brodie had managed to ascertain him as a true threat, or whether he dismissed him as a carousing, whoring drunk. He decided it was best to play to Brodie's prejudices. "I had thought to spend my coin on some new fineries, myself, but it seems that whenever I go ashore, I manage to piss it all away before I can make my way to the market. Such is the sailor's lot." He forced a grim, humourless smile at the last, hoping that his grimace of acute discomfort would read as weary resignation to a sailor's impecunious fortune.

"A sailor's lot is what he chooses to make of it, my profligate English friend," Brodie said with a wolfish smile. "Take you, for instance. Cast aside by your navy and your king and left to fester and rot in a West Indian hell. And yet you've picked yourself up right well, haven't you? You've become an invaluable member of my crew, despite your… predilections. Some might say that you've earned that second chance, my lad."

James's eyebrows creased together in puzzlement as he fought to keep any telltale signs of disbelief from his countenance. "I thought you were displeased with me after my… _imbroglio_ with Madame Devereaux?"

Brodie barked in laughter, but his eyes remained utterly free of any hint of mirth. "A minor peccadillo and one easily forgotten… should you continue to prove yourself trustworthy, that is."

James blanched as growing apprehension slowly dawned. Brodie wasn't trying to keep his treason a secret from James – he intended to recruit him to the cause! The realization struck James with the force of a thunderclap, and he swallowed thickly before scrabbling wildly for an answer that would keep the ever-cagey Scot appeased without arousing his suspicions.

"I will continue to do my duty as always, Captain," he said neutrally.

Brodie's wolfish grin became positively malevolent. "Enough of this 'duty' bilge and rot! You'd do well to remember that you're no longer in the king's employ, Norrington. It is I who pay your crust, and I who will tell you what to do. I do not require your childish notions of duty – only your strict obedience in all matters. Is that clear?"

Whatever traces, slim though they were, of merriment that had been in Brodie's voice were now thoroughly gone, replaced by cold menace. Such stark malignancy was not Brodie's usual way – perhaps, James thought with a tremor of dread, the totem had already seized the Scot's mind and begun twisting it towards its own terrible ends.

"Perfectly clear, sir," James said levelly, willing himself not to recoil from the naked evil that glittered so deceptively around Brodie's neck.

"Then see to it you remember your vow when I have need of you. Be ready to sail in an hour," Brodie said curtly, and without a further word, whirled around, greatcoat billowing out behind him, to stalk towards the aft cabin. His heart hammering a riotous tattoo against his ribcage, James descended the ladder into the crew deck, his military bearing the only bulwark against his shaken nerves.

Brodie had always been a mercurial character, but now his mood was erratic and unpredictable – and therefore dangerous. James recalled the ghastly tale of the plantation owner's wife, who had succumbed to a murderous jealousy under the malign influence of the totem. How much worse would the effect be on a heart already blackened with evil?

They had little time to lose. The longer Brodie wore the totem, the more dangerous he would be. James had to move – and soon.

* * *

"It's my belief that we can count on Crosby, Jenkins, Polwyn, and, of course, your friend Pete of a certainty. They're good-hearted souls who'd have no truck with Frenchie plots of any sort. And I'm inclined to say that Perkins, Pritchard, and Able would follow us as well, though I can't be as certain - they don't carry on too much with the other lads, tend to keep to 'emselves. The others, well… it's hard to say."

Riggins' voice was a hushed murmur that nevertheless managed to fill the stuffy confines of the lower hold, where he and James had ensconced themselves, upon the pretence of inspecting the water casks.

"You told them about Brodie's plot?" James said, casting his eyes askance at Riggins. In truth, a part of him still doubted having taken the amiable quartermaster into his confidence. It wasn't that he didn't trust Riggins' intentions – but the man's discretion was another thing entirely. If Brodie realized that James was working against him, then his wrath would be a terrible thing to behold indeed.

"Well now, of course not!" Riggins was clearly affronted by such an implicit lack of faith. "That's why I number so few among the men we can trust, even though in truth it might be that most on board won't hold with the captain's treason. But I know in times past, Crosby and the others have expressed a disliking for Frenchies. Hard to imagine them carrying on with a French plot to overthrow the king, ain't it?"

"Brodie's compatriots need not be French sympathizers," James reminded him. "Brodie himself holds no love for his French allies. They need only be sympathetic to the claims of the pretender to the throne. Fortunately, Brodie is both arrogant and secretive – he does not rely on others except when absolutely necessary, and he is loath to allow anyone into his private sanctum. Unfortunately, thanks to the totem, he is becoming even more erratic and paranoid than ever before. I fear we have little time."

"But what can be done?" Riggins was wide-eyed with apprehension. "Without the support of the crew, how can we manage to overpower the captain? Kurtz will be loyal to the end, you can be sure of it. I've never heard the man speak a word, but it's obvious he's Brodie's man through and through. And that little rat Hinks follows Kurtz around like a yapping dog. Just the two of us can't overtake them – you haven't seen Kurtz flog a man, but I have." Riggins shuddered. "Sometimes I think he's more beast than man."

"Kurtz and Brodie will each present a formidable challenge, but if I can acquire evidence of Brodie's treachery, then the crew – with the exception of Brodie's true believers – will be easy to persuade. I can't imagine any man aboard this vessel wishes to hang at the gallows for being an unwitting pawn in his captain's treachery," James said. "Brodie had mentioned allies in the Carolina colonies. Perhaps he keeps correspondence with them. If I can find letters from his fellow Jacobites in his cabin, then –"

"You're not planning to go into his cabin? That's madness, man! He'll sniff you out for certain!" Riggins' eyes were agog with fear.

"Perhaps it is not so certain," James said, thinking back to the relative ease with which he had snuck into the captain's cabin to meet with Niamh. And, of course…

"Which brings me to another matter. It is crucial that I secure Niamh before any attempt is made to take the ship. I will not have Brodie holding her hostage in the event things do not go smoothly," he said.

"But he will surely notice as soon as she's gone!"

"Certainly. At which point we will move against him. But we don't move until Niamh is safe, and that's final." James's tone brooked no disagreement.

Riggins sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Aye, well, I can't fault your chivalry, Norrington. It's just that I can't seem to shake a very ill feeling about the whole venture, to be honest."

James recalled the manic, murderous glee in Brodie's eyes when he'd returned aboard the ship, and the chill feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach returned.

"Nor can I," he echoed. In the silence and gloom of the lower decks, all the flaws of his plan were becoming plainer to see. He _was_ risking a great deal by attempting another incursion into the captain's cabin; but he also knew it could not be avoided. The thought of Brodie using Niamh as leverage, threatening to harm her in retaliation for James's betrayal, was unbearable. James could not allow her to be used in this game of politics and treachery, played out in a world that was not her own. She had already been a victim of Brodie once; he would not allow it to happen again.

With a heavy sigh, James steeled his nerves. There was nothing to be accomplished in worrying at the disparate threads of his plan, contemplating all the possible ways it could go wrong, until the tapestry pulled apart. As when he'd been a commander of naval warships, forced to make decisions on the fly, sometimes the only choices available in a given situation were a bad choice, and a terrible choice. When a man spent too long avoiding the bad choice, the terrible choice had a way of forcing itself on him as a brutal retribution for his hesitance – as James knew all too well.

"Tonight, when Brodie is making his rounds of the deck, I will go to his cabin and retrieve Niamh," he told Riggins. "I will also search for any evidence indicating Brodie's treachery. I will return to the crew deck – between Niamh's tale of woe and any evidence of French perfidy, I have no doubt that the crew will rally to us. Not even Kurtz and Brodie will be able to withstand the wrath of twenty armed men."

"Aye," Riggins said. "It's as good a plan as any, I suppose. I hope you're right, Norrington. Because if you ain't, we're to hang for it, for certain."

Yes, that rather pertinent detail had not escaped James's consideration. "If we are to fail, then make no mistake – I intend to die with my sword in my hand. I'll not swing from a traitor's yardarm. Make certain your weapons are ready for tonight, in case the worst happens."

* * *

The night had fallen, clear and bright, and James hoped the stark beauty of the Caribbean stars heralded some measure of hope for success. He recalled the night, not so long ago now, when he had stared up at the night sky, willing the heavens to impart their secrets to him. It had been the night he'd heard Niamh keening into the wind, so perhaps the heavens had answered after all.

James had kept his head down and his mouth shut during the day, as Brodie had stomped about the quarterdeck in more pique than usual. The crew had seemed to notice the change in their captain as well; they were more skittish, nervous in their duties, quiet and brooding – no sea shanties had echoed throughout the _Sagitta_ 's sails that day. It was as if they'd feared that crossing their captain's inexplicably ill mood would result in an uncharacteristic and brutal punishment – and, given the totem's progressively deleterious effects on its wearer's sanity and disposition, they were likely not far wrong. Not that they would know the true reason why, of course.

Most puzzlingly of all had been Brodie's orders, delivered curtly and without explanation, for a south-south-west heading. To make their way to the Carolinas – as James had assumed Brodie would do, given his promise to his French handlers – the _Sagitta_ and her crew would have needed to sail north, to the windward side of the great island chain of the Antilles, before rounding about northwest towards the great shore of the North American continent. But south-south-west – that took them on a bearing towards Trinidad and, eventually, South America. Were the Spanish party to the conspiracy as well? It made perfect sense – they had conspired with Irish Jacobites to invade Britain and restore the pretender to the throne less than ten years before. Did Brodie intend to deliver the _Sagitta's_ men over to the tender mercies of the Spanish and their Inquisition, while he loaded her to bear with all the elite caballeros the Dons could spare? The thought of being an English 'heretic' at the hands of the Spanish priests and their instruments of torture did little to quell James's unease. Or did Brodie have something else planned altogether –another mission of which his co-conspirators were unaware?

James firmly set aside his wandering thoughts. Speculation did no good at this juncture – and, if he were successful, then he need never know what Brodie had in store for the ship off the coast of the Spanish Main. His priority was to secure Niamh safely – and if Brodie had any evidence of his treachery present, then so much the better.

James leaned heavily against the gunwales, slipping his bottle of rum from his pocket and taking a deep pull. He did not want to be drunk – not tonight, of all nights – but he had developed something of a reputation for whiling away the nightly hours drinking rum and gazing at the stars, and he knew that any deviation from that routine would immediately stand out as odd. And so he held the bottle, knowing the skeleton crew on the night watch would pay him little heed. Kurtz stood, immobile as usual, against the foremast, looking aft – he would have to be careful that the big man did not notice when he made his move for the captain's cabin.

It seemed to James that he had been waiting for hours, and yet without any sign of Brodie. Of course, despite whatever restlessness often compelled him above decks after lights out, surely Brodie nevertheless spent some time in his cabin. Perhaps tonight James would simply be unlucky. He shuddered to imagine Brodie in Niamh's bed, playacting the 'loving husband.' A swell of sudden and desperate anger flooded through him, and he took another, steadying swig of rum to settle his temper.

But then, on cue, a shadow emerged from the aft lower deck ladder – James made a deliberate attempt to study the silvered, moonlit waves as he held his bottle steady, but he was certain, out of the corner of his eye, that it was Brodie. Of course – who else could it be? He would do untold terrible things to Niamh if she managed to escape to the top deck, and on a wide, open, forlorn ocean, to where could she escape?

James tucked his bottle discreetly into his coat's pocket as he casually observed Brodie make his way to the foremast. Kurtz inclined his head incrementally towards his captain, but made no other sound or movement, and Brodie leaned in close, whispering urgent words to the boatswain which James, so far away, could not hope to hear. This was his chance. Casting a nonchalant glace towards the bow of the ship to ensure that the captain and boatswain were occupied, he quickly and silently disappeared down the aft ladder, and made his way once again to the captain's cabin.

A quick and urgent knock on the hatch revealed a startled-looking Niamh. James's presence did not soothe her; rather, her eyes widened in terror.

"James! You must _not_ be here! Leave now!" She made to shut the hatch in his face, but James thrust his hand against it fervently.

"Niamh, please, listen to me! It is too dangerous for you here now – Brodie has acquired the Totem of Ikenna, and now he is more deadly than ever. You need to come with me. I mean to move against Brodie tonight, and I need to make certain you are safe. Please."

She stared at him in wild disbelief. "Move against him? But James, don't you understand? He has it – and now he can't be stopped! If you knew what he had planned, you never would have come back to this cursed hell ship! You should have gone, James, when you were ashore – gone away and left us all to the bitter fate he has in store for us!" Tears had slipped free from her eyes, and she looked at James with such kindness and regret as was enough to break his heart. An iron resolve tempered and hardened within him, and he felt the effects of the rum melt away.

"Niamh – I would not leave you to such a cruel fate. I told you I would save you from him and I mean to. And I cannot allow him to carry out his treason. With the totem he is powerful – powerful, but not invincible. He can still be stopped, but I need you to help me. I need you to tell me where he keeps his correspondence – any private documents, records, journals, letters. If I can prove that he has been plotting against the Crown, then I can put an end to his madness once and for all!" James reached out his hand, without thinking, and took hers. It was soft and gentle and so feminine, and he felt a rush of something he had not felt in a very, very long time.

"Besides," he said with a crooked smile, "Andrew Brodie is not the first cursed pirate I have fought. You could say I have experience."

"Oh, James," she sighed, cupping his face with her free hand, "you are truly the noblest, bravest man I have ever met." But then she withdrew from him and stepped away. "But you do not know what he has become – what that evil _thing_ has done to him!" Her face twisted in revulsion. "He was always a wicked man, but before, he would cloak his wickedness beneath a mask of urbanity and grace, playing the part of a sophisticate, a gentleman adventurer and collector of curios. But now," she shuddered, "he has torn the mask away to reveal the ugliness within. He told me all about his plans last night, you see – how he intends to gather an army and return to England at the head of a vast invasion fleet, and enact a most vicious and cruel revenge against your country. I do not believe he intends to stop with replacing your king, James – I think he means to wage a brutal war against your people. He… he said he would not rest until every son of England has buried his father just as he, a son of Scotland, had to bury his."

James felt his blood run cold at Niamh's description of Brodie's mad rantings. "But did he say why he was sailing to the southwest? Did he mention the Spaniards?"

Niamh shook her head. "He said nothing about any allies, though I perceive now that if the totem has fixated his heart upon such bloodlust, he must be on his way to acquire them – if his words are to be believed and are not merely the ramblings of a madman. Wait –" She stopped, struck with a sudden thought. "He did mention that he needed to 'secure his collection' before he sailed for England. But… I don't know what that could possibly mean. His collection is here, on the ship, as you see before you." She smiled bitterly. "I am sorry I cannot help you more, James."

James shook his head. "You have done more than enough, Niamh. Now come with me – it is imperative that I get you out of this prison cell and away from him before he realizes I am down here. I will find evidence of Brodie's perfidy and he will either die at my hand or hang at the gallows for his crimes – and then you will be free."

Niamh smiled sadly at him. "I will come with you, James – I have nothing else to lose. Perhaps I should have fled years ago, though I had nowhere to run. He would have killed me, but death would have been better than this prison. I thank you for giving me the courage to throw off my shackles."

"Well ain't that so sweet?"

The thin, reedy voice hit James like a blow to the gut, and he spun around to stare, horrorstruck, into the hated, rat-like face of the boatswain's mate Hinks. Behind him, his thin face purple with rage, towered Andrew Brodie.

"Hinks here had an interesting tale to tell me, laddie," Brodie said, his voice an even, low thrum of barely-contained fury. "He scampered right up to me like the loyal dog he is to tell me as how he saw a shadow disappear down the aft ladder, towards my cabin. Imagine my surprise when I find my loyal crewman down here alone with my wife."

The devastation of his absolute, world-shattering failure crushed down on James with the weight of a thousand bricks. _Hinks_. He'd forgotten to check for that slimy rat-bastard Hinks, of all the _stupid, careless_ mistakes! And now he had just damned himself – and Niamh! – for his idiocy. A burning, rancid bile rose in his throat.

"Sneakin' off to tumble the captain's wife, what a naughty boy," Hinks tittered gleefully. "Naughty boy, naughty boy, must be taught a lesson, a lesson I'm sure Kurtz is happy to teach with the cat, oh yes!" He dissolved into a fit of shrill giggles, and James, his world in flames and crashing down around him, saw red.

"She is NOT HIS WIFE!" he roared, slamming into Hinks and sending the two of them tumbling out of Brodie's cabin and into the bulkhead beyond the cabin hatch. Hinks squealed in pain as James seized his neck and began to slam his head against the bulkhead with a frenzied strength.

"How dare you!" He slammed Hinks again and again, and with one hand, seized the man's throat and began to squeeze. "Do you know what she is? She is his slave! You filthy little rat!" Through a red haze, he saw Hinks growing purple, heard his laboured wheezes, and tightened his grip. But, just as soon as he'd gotten his second hand around the squirmy man's neck, he was jerked away, his own neck caught in a vise-like grip. Looking down in confusion, he noted burgundy velvet before he was thrown to the ground with force.

"To think I trusted you," Brodie grated out, his face a mask of rage. "You could have had _everything_ , Norrington! Fame, gold, all the whores you could fuck in a lifetime – it was yours for the taking! All you had to do was _obey me_! But no! You wasted your loyalty on a country and a king who destroyed your life and left you for dead, instead of granting it to the man who gave you a second chance at self-respect! You pissed your future away just as you piss away your earnings on cheap sluts and rotgut! You _fool_!" He kicked James in the ribs, hard, and James grunted as the pain shot through him like fire, hearing a loud crack as the bones gave way. Through a haze of agony, James reached for his blade.

"And you," Brodie's voice was filled with disgust as he turned to Niamh. "I will deal with you later. I gave you everything! A fine home, the best food, companionship and love – and look what you do to me! Plotting against your own husband with this whoring bastard! Do you think you're special, you stupid little slag? Do you know what he does when he goes ashore? If you think you're the only woman he puts that poxy prick in, then –"

Brodie was silenced by a resounding slap as Niamh's hand met his cheek with the pent-up fury of a lifetime of hatred. "You are not my husband!" she screamed. "Never call me that again, do you hear me? Never!"

"Don't worry, my darling," Brodie's voice was a sickening mockery of marital affection. "I won't be your husband for long. I made a mistake with you. Got complacent. I will be rectifying that error as soon as we get to Santa Maria – "

Whatever else Brodie had to say disappeared into a howl of pain as James lurched and thrust his blade home, between the Scot's ribs. The captain staggered, bellowing in pain, as James straightened, rising slowly, his side blazing in pain. He lifted the blade again –

And was slammed backwards, into the cabin hatch, by a force of unspeakable strength. His breath was knocked from his lungs and he wheezed desperately, his nerves exploding in agony, as he looked into the rigid, emotionless face of Kurtz, whose massive bulk now obscured James's frame of vision. He felt Kurtz's hands tighten on his arms, pinning him immobile to the bulkhead. He kicked his legs feebly, but knew, with a growing sense of infuriating futility, that whatever blows he landed on the giant's shins were as inconsequential as a gnat bothering at an elephant. Kurtz tightened his grip, and James felt his head swimming as he threatened to black out from the pain.

"That's… enough," a laboured voice, unmistakably Scottish, said from somewhere behind him. "Take him topside. I want an example made."

And so James was lifted, as effortlessly as if he were a child, arms still pinned in Kurtz's steel grip, and dragged out the hatch. Brodie staggered behind, his countenance murderous, hand clutched to the wound in his side, and he shot a baleful glare at Niamh as he slammed, locked, and bolted the hatch behind her. The last thing James heard as he was dragged up the aft ladder was her keening wail of anguish, and his heart shattered.

The faintest purplish hint of dawn marred the eastern horizon as Kurtz hauled James across the deck.

"Summon the crew. I want them to see what happens when one of those dogs sees fit to betray me," Brodie snapped at Hinks, who had followed, bloody-headed and much the worse for wear, at his master's heels.

James felt his spirit bleeding out of him, and it seemed as though he were watching himself being dragged across the deck, as if he were a dispassionate observer who bore no relation to the sad man held in a deadlock by the monstrously huge boatswain. He felt his gaze wandering across the deck of the _Sagitta_ , seeing it with a stranger's eyes, the ship and ocean feeling as alien to him as the vast wilds of Africa. He noted the weak glimmering of the evening stars as they reluctantly gave way to dawn, and it struck him that this was the last time he would ever see stars, or the sunrise, or the gentle play of waves across the boundless expanse of the ocean. The thought was not as frightening or as sad as he'd once imagined it might be; he mostly felt a sense of shame, that he was going to die and everyone who had counted on him would be let down, again. It was just like the _Dauntless_ , only before, he had lived where so many worthier had died; now, he would die, and those who went on living would have to deal with the consequences of his mistakes.

A dim commotion, as of a far-distant battle, reached his ears, and he withdrew from his reverie to notice that Brodie had gone stock still.

"What the devil is that gormless snake doing down there? I gave him a simple order and I expect it to be obeyed without fuss! Must I do everything myself on this barge?" Brodie growled aloud at no one in particular, his hand stanching the blood flowing from his side as he glared daggers at James, whose eyes now focused on the foredeck ladder, from which a scuffling, thumping racket now issued. At last –

"What the bloody hell?" Brodie exclaimed as Riggins, Crosby, Polwyn, Jenkins, Wells, and Simple Pete poured out of the lower deck, all armed with a variety of blades, and dragging the wounded, screaming Hinks behind them. The other ship's crew, clearly unsure of the wisdom of joining in with an armed mutiny, but yet also unwilling to take up arms against their shipmates, followed a fair space behind, content to watch the drama unfold.

"Unhand Mr. Norrington now, Kurtz," Riggins said boldly, "or your mate will suffer whatever fate he does, so help me. We know what you're up to, and we won't stand for it. You won't be takin' this ship to no Frenchies or traitors, not on our watch!" James felt his heart swell with pride – these were stout Jack Tars, indeed! He felt his spirit begin to rise again in the presence of such sailorly solidarity.

Kurtz made no response, and Brodie's thin lips pressed together as he regarded the new mutineers with a scathing glare of contempt. "How disappointing, Mr. Riggins. Don't you remember where you were before I saw fit to take you aboard my vessel? All of you – where would you be without me?" He sneered. "You think to bargain for Norrington's life with Hinks as your chip? Kill him, then, if you must. Do you think he matters to me? He is mostly useless." James saw an expression of confusion and hurt pass over Hinks' blood-smeared face as he wriggled in the grip of his captors.

"But Norrington? No, Norrington is far from useless. He is quite dangerous, as a matter of fact. So dangerous that he seems to have planned out an entire mutiny beneath my nose. Such insubordination will be punished severely, and it is such punishment that I have invited you all to witness. Perhaps the rest of you will reconsider your actions when you see what becomes of traitors aboard the _Sagitta_." Brodie gestured to Kurtz. "Tie him to the mast."

James was again helplessly immobile as the mountainous man crushed him against the mainmast. He wrenched James's arms above his head, nearly ripping them from the sockets, and James felt a rope encircle his wrists, binding them close and cutting into them as he struggled in vain against the hulk of the man behind him. His face was pressed into the wooden mast and he twisted his head sideways, feeling the splinters cutting into his cheek as his wrists were secured to the mast. So this was how he would die – no quick, merciful death at the gallows, but the long, drawn-out torture of flogging. His heart began to race as memories of that time so long ago, when he'd been a feckless thirteen year old midshipman who hadn't been as careful as he should have, flooded back in: of the explosive agony of the cat lashing into his flesh; of the rhythmic drumming of the marine and dirge-like bellow of the boatswain as he announced each lash, the number climbing impossibly higher and higher; of the acrid odour of his own blood as it pooled beneath him in an ever-growing river…

"No," he said, looking helplessly at Brodie. "The crew have nothing to do with this. They are acting on my orders, at my command. Leave them out of this."

Brodie smiled, and it was truly terrifying – like a wolf exposing its teeth before its prey.

"Oh, I think not. They've made their position rather plain, haven't they? I think they shall share your fate, in the end. Strip him, Kurtz."

James could just see, out of the corner of his left eye, the gathered crew; and it was therefore just on the periphery of his vision that he registered the quick motion of a cutlass blade on the air.

"Now, boys – it's six on one! We can take them!" Brave, foolish Riggins – rushing headlong into the maw. James felt intensely guilty for ever doubting his resolve.

Bedlam ensued as the men charged. James felt a brief easing of the pain cutting into his wrists as Kurtz abruptly disappeared, and he struggled to see what was going on, where Kurtz had gone, what the other men were doing – if they were able to cut down Kurtz, and if they could subdue Brodie, they might still have a chance after all…

"What the bloody – " The voice – which James faintly recognized as Jenkins' – terminated in an agonized shriek, and James winced – he knew a death cry when he heard one. James saw Riggins rush Brodie, and the captain, meeting the challenge with a feral grin, drew his own blade as the men began to duel.

"Get it! Grab his blade! Go – I'll get him!"

Suddenly James felt cold steel against his wrists, and the ropes abruptly sagged – he was free! He turned around to see Crosby standing there, eyes wide with battle fear.

"Richard…"

"Here," Crosby said, thrusting a cutlass into his hands. "But Kurtz – "

Whatever Crosby had been about to say terminated in a gurgle, and James looked down in horror to see a blade thrust through the man's chest, then jerked back out as swiftly as it had entered. Crosby slumped to the ground with a moan and James was face to face with the expressionless, mountainous Kurtz, holding the biggest blade James had ever seen.

"No!" James cried, as the rage of losing yet another good man, yet another loyal and true sailor, surged through him. So many men had died because of him – not one more! He lashed at Kurtz, but the big man blocked his thrust and shoved back effortlessly. James parried again and again, but Kurtz never seemed to tire, never seemed to wear down, to make a mistake, to give James an opening –

But he also did not seem determined to end the fight, either. James puzzled as the big man duelled him calmly, almost lackadaisically. The thought that this man – this monster – could be so calm and collected about cutting down his own crew sent James into rage anew, and with a quick thrust, James cut his sword inside, towards Kurtz's gut; but when the expected parry came, he reversed course just as quickly, and drove the blade home, deep into the man's chest.

With a cry of triumph, James quickly turned to survey the scene – Crosby and Jenkins had fallen, Polywn and Simple Pete lay wounded, clutching bloody gashes, while Wells, whose head was covered in blood, dragged them back away from the battle; Riggins was severely outmatched by Brodie, and James realized with a start that he needed to give his companion a hand, and turned to retrieve his blade from Kurtz's body –

But Kurtz had not fallen. He stood as still and impassive as ever James had seen him, and, as James watched with mounting horror, slowly and deliberately pulled James's sword from his chest. He glanced at the sword with a blank, featureless expression, and held it aloft, a sword now in each hand.

"So, do you like my golem, Norrington?" Brodie's voice was thick with mockery. James saw that Riggins, overcome by the sight of a man pulling a blade out of his own chest, had succumbed to Brodie's superior skill, and stood clutching at his own bleeding arm in mute terror.

"He comes in quite handy at times," Brodie continued brightly. "Unlike you lot, he never complains, or gets any sorts of ideas in his head. In fact, he has no ideas about anything at all! An ideal crewman, don't you think? Dumb, unthinking, and obedient to the letter. And the best part – he can't be killed! Splendid, isn't he? He remains as long as I desire it – and why should I ever wish him to leave?"

Brodie's geniality dissolved at once. "Kurtz – tie Norrington to the mast. I think it is time that his friends finally receive that lesson that I had promised, don't you?" He turned to Riggins, who still stared, ashen-faced, at the monstrous boatswain. "Don't worry, my old friend. Your turn will come."

James sagged as Kurtz, his face a void, jerked his coat from his shoulders and dragged him over to the mast, and once more bound his wrists above him. He saw the rest of the crew, their faces shocked and sickened by the events they had just witnessed, staring in mute dismay. He heard the fabric of his shirt rending as Kurtz ripped it from his shoulders, and his bare back prickled into gooseflesh in the chill pre-dawn air. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of the pain he was about to receive, but he was determined – with every fibre of his being – to deny Brodie the pleasure of seeing him wincing or crying out for mercy.

"You may begin. Remember, nice and slow. We wouldn't want him to get comfortable."

The flogging he'd received as a midshipman had been brutal, the boatswain clearly enjoying his chance to lord it over the son of a highfaluting admiral; but this, this was a thousand times worse, if only because the hands wielding the cat-o'-nine-tails were not human. The first lash bit into his flesh deep and true, and he stifled a scream; the second layered over the first, ripping into the already-raw and bloody skin and opening it further; the third brought tears to his eyes that he refused to shed, instead squeezing his eyes so hard against the pain that stars burst against his eyelids.

It went on, interminably, until every nerve, every muscle, every raw sinew in James's body screamed with agony. He felt his feet, which jerked out with every blow, slip against the deck; a wild-eyed glance revealed a massive pool of his own blood.

"For the love of God, stop this cruelty! You'll kill him!" The voice – which, through his pain-hazed mind, he recognized as Riggins' – cried out, but it was met with a burst of cold laughter.

"Come come, Mr. Riggins, surely you don't imagine that Mr. Norrington will be rejoining the crew after what he's done? I just want you to get a taste of what you have to look forward to when it is time for your punishment."

James sagged bonelessly, the ropes cutting bloody gashes into his wrists as his legs dangled, unable to support his weight. That it should end like this, here, was the worst of it. The pain he could bear, somehow, if it would all be worth it in the end, but Niamh was still a prisoner, to be used and punished in God knew what hideous way by the monster who had murdered her husband; Brodie was free and clear now to carry out his treachery, unimpeded by any who knew of his plans or cared to stop him; and Elizabeth would never see him again, and perhaps wonder what had become of him, and when news of Brodie's rampage spread, she would know, beyond a doubt, that he had failed…

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the air as the lash bit into his flesh again and again. "I'm so sorry." The tears he'd tried so long to hold in spilled over at last, but he was too weary, far too weary, to care whether Brodie crowed in triumph. He missed her. Why hadn't he kissed her, that last time, on the docks in Bridgetown? He loved her. He always would. But he had failed her. Did she care? Did she miss him? Was she thinking about him even now, in her comfortable, elegant room in her father's mansion? Would she ever think of him again?

"I love you," he said thickly as his consciousness hovered on the edge of the void. "I'm sorry for everything. I love you."

"How precious," Brodie said, his voice cruel and mocking, but James no longer cared. He loved her, and he needed her to know. To hear the words, even if she had never believed them, had never felt them herself.

" _Sail ho! Sail off the starboard bow! Bearing straight for us! Sail hooooo!_ "

Was it her? James's brain trudged slowly through the fog of pain as the words took moments to process. Had she come for him, to say goodbye? To tell him that she loved him at last?

"I'm here, darling," he murmured, his mouth full of the iron taste of his own blood. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth – it was torn and ragged. He must have bitten it in agony. But that didn't matter anymore. She was coming, and they would be together at last. Like it was supposed to be.

"Sail? Well, what kind of ship is it, you fool? A man o'war, a Dutchman, a Spaniard, a Frenchman? A merchant brig? Speak up, you blithering idiot!"

Didn't they know? It was his Elizabeth, come to him at last! He smiled.

"It's too far out to tell, but she's big, and she's coming fast our way! Sir, what shall we do?"

Brodie let out a string of creative Scottish invective. "Damn it all, we make sail! Every man topside – we need all the speed we can muster. Take Riggins and those other traitors down and put them in irons. I'll deal with them later – no time for it now! I'm not about to lose my treasure to any marauders who see fit to take it! It's mine, damn you all! _Mine_!"

The sound of men scuttling aboard a ship was a pleasant sound, and it reminded James of when he had been the captain of his own vessel. He'd been so excited when he'd earned his promotion – at last, he could feel free to begin courting sweet Elizabeth Swann. At last, he'd been good enough for her.

"Oh, and cut that English bastard down. Throw him overboard. The sharks will smell the blood and make short work of him soon enough."

Suddenly, the pressure at James's wrists was gone, and he sagged gratefully against the large presence that had released him. He felt light and buoyant as he bobbed along, dimly aware that he was being carried, and then he was flying through the air, feeling the wind whistle across his skin, until his body hit the waves and he sank below.


	16. Black Sails

The saltwater burned like liquid flame as it rushed over James's lacerated skin and set his nerves alight with an agony beyond measure. Jarred out of his catatonia by the raw, screaming pain, his eyes snapped open wide and he cried out in instinctive reflex, swallowing a salty mouthful of seawater in the process. Thrusting his head above the waves, he spit the water out and blinked, clearing the water from his eyes, in time to watch the _Sagitta_ putting on her fastest sail, leaving him behind, a floating piece of jetsam left for the sea to claim.

The pain was unending and nearly unendurable. Every breath brought a new stab of agony, and his back burned as if afire. Through pain-hazed eyes, he saw the pink foam surrounding him as his blood mingled with the breakers churned by the _Sagitta_ 's departure, and he knew, as any seafarer familiar with Caribbean waters knew, that it was only a matter of time before the scent of his fresh blood drew the sharks.

The thought of letting go – of ceasing his meagre struggles against the waves, of allowing himself to slip silently beneath the waves and let the ocean take him – was tempting; seductive, even. Certainly a more peaceful fate than being torn apart by monsters of the sea. But still his legs kicked, keeping him afloat; though his mind staggered, buffeted by endless surges of nerve-singing pain, and though despair tore at him as relentlessly as any shark, still, some deeper instinct, some preternatural need to survive, refused to allow him to cease movement. And then he remembered that she was coming.

But, of course, it couldn't really be her, could it? The agony of the salt lacing into his wounds had brought clarity to his dying fantasies, and he knew that Elizabeth was not here. Of course not – she was in Port Royal, many hundreds of miles away, safe with her father. She would never know what happened to him – that he'd met his fate in the middle of the lonely and endless sea, overcome by fatigue, if he were fortunate, or ravening predators, if he were not. She would never know, and she would move on, just as she always did, with barely a worry for him. He hoped, at least, that she would think on him sometimes. That she would look out over the ocean, on a clear, cloudless day, and perhaps be reminded of him in the gentle rolling of the waves, or in the majestic masts and sails of a tall and proud ship of war. He allowed the memories to pass over him like cool water from a spring – Elizabeth, granting him a courtly bob as she greeted him at her father's society ball, and smiling demurely as he asked for a dance; the overwhelming, fumbling nervousness he'd felt as he struggled to work up the courage to ask for her hand, stumbling frantically over his words like a dumbstruck lad; the stark, soul-gripping terror he'd felt as he watched her plunge over the parapet, and the fury at Groves and Gillette who'd kept him from leaping in after her, as he'd wanted – needed – to do; the feeling of utter repugnance as he'd seen her in the arms of that vile pirate, Jack Sparrow; the black sails of Sparrow's ship of the damned as it sliced through the waves, on a direct heading right towards him –

James blinked the mist of seawater out of his eyes. There – on the horizon, and moving fast – a ship, coming towards him. The ship that he'd recalled hoping, in his stupor of pain, would bear Elizabeth to him in his final moments. But as the ship came into focus, his memories fled, and he realized that the last was not a memory at all. Unmistakably black sails glinted against the early morning light as the ship drew closer and resolved into detail.

_Black sails_.

This had to be a cruel trick. It had to be. Of all the ships on the ocean waves… all the mariners sailing the seven seas…

The ship drew ever closer, and soon, through the mist and the pain, James could see small figures standing against her gunwales, pointing excitedly in his direction. He imagined he could see Sparrow standing there in that ineffably jaunty way of his, twirling his ridiculous braided beard betwixt gaudily be-ringed fingers. He was starting to wish the sharks had shown up first.

He felt himself growing heavy, and his head disappeared beneath the sea as his muscles, weak with fatigue, were becoming unequal to the task of keeping him afloat. With a jerk he broke above the waves, spraying water from his mouth like a surfacing whale. His weight seemed heavier than before, as though he were an anchor, yearning to sink gratefully beneath the ocean's surface and into the seabed. With flagging strength, he spied the ship, now close enough to discern her masthead, and the injustice burned through him, raw and primal. That his last sight on earth should be _this_ ship…

His legs failing, he sank once more; this time, his weary muscles did not have the strength to keep him above the waves. He observed his surroundings, now distorted by the blue-green ripple of water, all around him. He could see the hulking dark silhouette of the ship's hull, a stark shadow against the promise of sunlight above. _What a fitting metaphor_ , he thought mordantly.

Well, maybe this wouldn't be so bad. It was rather peaceful, actually. His lungs grew tight and painful, but he felt pleasantly fuzzy, and rather sleepy, now that he thought about it. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just let go, to lay anchor here. The water enveloped him like a cocoon – he was warm and snug, and it was so pleasant. The pain was a distant memory. Yes, this was pleasant indeed.

Something brushed against his face. He opened his eyes in irritation – how was he supposed to rest if he could not enjoy his repose in peace? A tentacle dangled in front of him – a sea creature? No – no tentacle. It was braided, and small fibres floated out from around it, and it went up, up, above the waves. _A rope_ , his mind absently supplied. It brushed against him once more. With a movement spurred more by instinct than thought, he reached out to grasp it. That was what sailors did, wasn't it? They worked with rope. It felt right to hold onto it. Then, he felt himself moving.

Breaking above the waves was a cruel shock to his system – the soft, comfortable warmth was gone, abruptly replaced by the biting chill of the early morning air. The pain and pressure in his chest exploded in a frantic exhale as he eagerly stole a lungful of air. The blackness around the edges of his vision receded, and the pain – the soul-searing pain, his back on fire with a thousand agonies – returned. He barely registered as he thumped gracelessly against the bulwark and collapsed into a heap on the deck. His mind faded in and out as he heard the yammering of voices about him, and he struggled to find the strength to move, to do anything –

The voices subsided, and he heard footsteps fall on the deck near where he lay immobile. He heard a hissed intake of breath, and what sounded like a _tsk-tsk_ , as of a parent chiding a child with a skinned knee. Then, as the darkness closed back in on him again, he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him over, to face the brightening sky.

And right above him, displaying a bizarre combination of cringing sympathy and wry secret humour, floated the face of Jack Sparrow.

"You," James croaked, and then all was blackness.

* * *

He awoke with a start as his wounds were doused in flames. With a bellow of pain, he jerked his eyes open and reared back, his flailing arm coming into contact with a mass of solid flesh. He heard a startled grunt and the creaking of a heavyset body stumbling across the deck, reeling from the blow, and, as his eyes quickly assessed his situation, he determined that he was below the deck of a ship, stretched out flat on a sawbones' table.

Memories flooded back to him, one rapidly after another: the failed mutiny and Brodie's terrible vengeance; the sickening revelation of Kurtz's true nature; his brutal flogging, after which he'd been thrown overboard and left for dead; the ship approaching him in the morning mist, black sails on the horizon… the smirking, infuriating face of Jack Sparrow, the one man he'd truly hoped to never see again.

With a groan equal parts pain and displeasure, he eased himself up, his back ablaze with every muscle twitch, and turned as gingerly as he could to regard another face he'd once known long ago.

"Even half dead, you go down swinging," Joshamee Gibbs said, rubbing a hand slowly across his bruising jaw, a bucket of bilge water in the other hand. "You always were a fightin' captain, I'll give you that much, Commodore."

"Gibbs?" he croaked, his voice raw and salt-cracked. "What are you doing?"

"Well, ah, the cap'n – that is, Mr. Sparrow – he told me to take you down here and tend to your wounds," Gibbs said. "Said as it might be kindly for you to see a familiar face that, ah, wasn't his when you stirred."

James scoffed, and attempted to sit upright, his back screaming in agony with every movement. Sparing a quick glance down at himself, he only just kept himself from wincing – he was bare-chested, his shirt long since torn away, and his once-pale breeches were stiff and encrusted with dried blood. He hated to imagine what his back looked like.

Rubbing a shaking hand along his stubbly jaw, James cast a dark look at Gibbs. "I remember you when you were a gunner's mate on the _Relentless_ all those years ago," he said. "You were a good seaman then. And yet you threw it all away to join this flea-bitten motley band of villains. I'd thought you better than that, Gibbs."

Gibbs, to his partial credit, had the wherewithal to look somewhat abashed. "Ain't much coin takin' the King's shilling, sir," he said carefully. "I made a bigger bounty in one piratin' raid with the _Pearl_ than I did in two whole years in the sea service."

James scoffed again, wishing his back would stop burning. "Some of us have grander ambitions in life than the acquisition of coin," he snarled.

"Aye," Gibbs said evenly. "Those what have enough coin already might indeed. The rest of us, well, our ambitions are to scrape up just enough to avoid the almshouse."

James snorted in disdain, and tried to ignore how uncomfortably Gibbs' words reflected his own recent penury. "And I suppose cursed treasure that turns you into a ghoul neither living nor dead is simply an occupational hazard in your new profession?"

"Well, I never said it was an easy life, Mr. Norrington," Gibbs replied easily. "But for what it's worth, I'm sorry the crew attacked your ship. I never had no particular quarrel with the navy, and Barbossa was a madman."

"Some of your old friends died that night," James said darkly. "Men who decided that their honour was worth more than ill-gotten pirate gold. Do not expect me to offer you sympathy."

"Ain't askin' for any, sir," Gibbs said, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "But, well, we pirates did just save your life. Perhaps you might be a mort grateful for that, at least."

James scowled, but had to admit that the man had a point. "I can imagine that Jack Sparrow does nothing out of pure philanthropy. No doubt I will find myself repaying this debt sooner rather than later." Forestalling Gibbs' protestations, he raised his hand. "But do not let it be said that I am an ingrate. For what it's worth, thank you for tending to me, Gibbs." James nearly choked on his next words, noxious as they were. "And… you may thank Sparrow for ensuring my rescue." There. That was over with, and with a minimum of pain.

Gibbs, perhaps sensing how difficult it had been for James to spit out any words with the remotest charity towards Jack Sparrow, stifled a grin. "Aye, Mr. Norrington, but you might tell him yourself. He'll be down to check on you once you're up and about. Shall I tell him you're ready, then?"

James paled and pursed his lips together tightly. Of course he wouldn't be able to avoid a conversation with that grating, infuriating pirate – not on his own cursed ship. "Very well," he snapped. "I might as well swallow this poison now and get it over with."

Gibbs did not suppress his grin this time. "Oh, it won't be so bad," he said. "I think Captain Sparrow is actually a bit fond of you, to tell the truth." Touching his knuckles to his forehead in the old naval seamen's fashion, Gibbs hastened from the hold before James could formulate a coherent reply through his flummoxed haze of supreme irritation.

Carefully rising from the surgeon's table (stained with who knew how many disparate puddles of blood), James winced as he limped across the room and took the rag from the pail of bilge water that Gibbs had used to clean his back. Steeling himself, he reached around and wiped across the gaping wounds with the wet rag, stifling a cry of agony as the saltwater burned into his rent flesh. The acute agony focused his rage, and as he cleaned his torn skin, he thought of Brodie, sailing on to his mystery destination, the rest of _Sagitta_ 's crew defeated or cowed into submission, with no one to stop him from executing his dreadful plan to hand England's crown over to an absolutist French-supported tyrant. Not to mention whatever terrible fate he had in store for Niamh, who had finally worked up the courage to defy him. James burned with shame and fury – he had gone to her, encouraged her to finally throw off her shackles and move against Brodie, with the promise of his protection, and he had failed her. Because of him, and his failure, a fate worse than death now awaited her. Stoking the fires of his anger, James dunked the rag into the bilge water again and lashed it across his back, the cleansing pain causing him to hiss out a laboured breath as stars hovered on the edges of his vision.

"Oooh," a very familiar, very particularly grating voice groaned in sympathy behind him, and James froze, wondering how long its insufferable owner had been standing there. "Got to say, Commodore, your back's never going to be pretty again. What a shame, that."

Clenching his teeth together so hard they hurt, James dropped the rag back into the bucket and turned slowly to face a deceptively doe-eyed Jack Sparrow. "Sparrow," he grated.

"That's _Captain_ Sparrow. We've been through this before," Sparrow said breezily, and he extended a bundle in his arms towards James, who eyed it as though it were a rancid carcass. "Thought you might want a change of garments," Sparrow said jauntily, his eyes briefly flicking across James's raggedy appearance. "I don't know whose feathers you ruffled to end up on the business end of a boatswain's cat, but, if you don't mind my noticing, you're a _bit_ worse for wear."

James slowly reached out a hand and snatched the proffered clothes from Sparrow's arms with a grimace. "I hope the shirt fits," Sparrow offered apologetically as James shook it out from the pile. "These used to be old Bartlett's rags, but, alas, he won't be needing them anymore, God rest his soul." The pirate raised his eyes dramatically to the heavens, and James could not suppress a loud snort.

"What?" Sparrow said innocently. "Waste not, want not, I always say."

"The notion of you engaging in anything resembling piety is surely an insult to all things holy," James grumbled, pulling the shirt on over his head and trying not to wince as the fabric brushed against his open wounds. It was a bit too tight through the shoulders, but it would have to do. Apparently poor old Bartlett had not been a very broad man.

"Now, that's hardly fair," Sparrow pouted. "I'll have you know I once found myself in a house of God, surrounded by holy cloistered sisters." James stared disbelievingly at Sparrow, brows furrowed sceptically; the pirate shrugged fecklessly. "Well, admittedly, I thought it was a whorehouse, but mistakes happen."

Shaking his head, James grabbed the pair of breeches, but he would be damned if he was going to change into _those_ in front of Sparrow. "I suppose this is the part where I thank you for saving my life," James said grudgingly.

Sparrow gave an exaggerated bow. "Happy to be of service to my favourite commodore in His Majesty's Service," he chirped. "Speaking of our shared history, I'm afraid you missed Lizzie and the Eunuch. Not quite cut out for the pirate's life, it seemed." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "You know, I always was pulling for you, mate. You could stand a sense of humour, but I'm fairly certain you don't keep your manhood in a jar."

James scowled deeper at the mention of Elizabeth and Will Turner. "As it happens, I have seen them both this month," he said. "Apparently young Mr. Turner is on some hare-brained quest to find his pirate father, much to the consternation of Miss Swann. Their betrothal has come to an end." He did not know why he felt compelled to share this information with Jack bloody Sparrow of all people, but knowing that he was the reason for the dissolution of their relationship still engendered in him a perverted sense of pride.

"Well then, looks to me like the seas are clear for you to resume your pursuit of Miss Swann, savvy?" Sparrow winked lewdly at James, and when James didn't immediately take the bait, Sparrow's eyes widened in mock astonishment. "Unless… perhaps you have already, shall we say, plucked her delicate rose?"

James scowled (it occurred to him that he was doing a lot of scowling). "That is none of your business, pirate," he said.

Sparrow's eyes sparkled. "Oh, you sly _dog_ you! Well done! I always knew she could do better. And frankly, all you needed to do was to extract that ramrod from your bum. You're much more pleasant now, by the way. Is that entirely due to the charms of our dear Lizzie? Or did you finally make admiral? Get your own desk, kick up your boots, send other fools out into the broadsides of the enemy while you enjoy a refreshing brandy?"

James's scowl darkened thunderously. "I am no longer in His Majesty's employ," he said shortly. "Thanks in no small part to you. The admiralty didn't take kindly to my act of mercy, extracted at the behest of my then-fiancée, and they took even less kindly to the loss of the _Dauntless_ whilst in your pursuit. I lost her in a hurricane off Tripoli, and I have not been in the navy in three years."

To his somewhat credit, Sparrow looked almost genuinely sad. Almost. "You followed us into that storm?" He whistled softly. "You always were too bold, dear commodore. I suppose your tale of woe explains why we found you floating in the deep with your back half-flayed after having been tossed off like jetsam from a merchant brig. Not the place one would expect to find an esteemed officer in His Majesty's Navy."

Sparrow's reference to the _Sagitta_ cut through the fog of memory and recollections, and brought James abruptly back to the present. Brodie was no doubt long gone from sight, and James still had no real idea where he was headed, and so had no way of tracking him down. A sense of helplessness rose in him like bile, and he fought down his rage. If only he knew where Brodie was headed – though the villain by now had such a head start, it hardly mattered…

Or… did it? The _Sagitta_ was a sleek, fast ship, one of the fastest he'd ever sailed aboard. But he knew, from bitter experience, that there was one ship on the ocean waves which was undoubtedly faster. One ship which might, if she put on all sail, be able to make up the distance and catch up to Brodie after all. And he was standing aboard her decks at that very moment.

"Sparrow," James began, urgently but warily.

" _Captain_ Sparrow," the pirate automatically corrected.

"Yes, yes, 'Captain' Sparrow," James bit out impatiently. "As… is no doubt apparent, I had a disagreement with my captain. His name is Andrew Brodie. He captains a merchant brig called the _Sagitta_ – you were closing in on her when you stopped to rescue me. I presume you intended to plunder her. If you would… consider resuming your pursuit, I would be most grateful. Brodie is a wicked man, and he must be stopped."

Sparrow stared, equal parts bemused and astonished, at James for several long seconds. "Excuse me," he said. "I thought I just heard James Norrington encouraging an act of piracy. Did I hear that right?"

James sighed impatiently. "Not piracy, per se," he said. "But your aim was to pursue and interdict the _Sagitta_ , was it not – to plunder her booty, as it were? All I am asking is that you resume your previous course of action."

"Riiiight," Sparrow drawled slowly. "Which, to be clear, would be piracy."

"If you insist," James snapped. "Will you do it?"

Sparrow looked at him cannily, and began to slowly stroke his elaborately braided beard. "Now, this is surely among the strangest of requests I've ever heard," he said. "A man who loathes pirates down to his very bones, asking perhaps the most notorious and feared pirate of them all" – James could not suppress an eye roll at Sparrow's hyperbole – "to continue on with his pirating. What has the world come to? What could this Brodie have possibly done to make Commodore James Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy, throw in his lot with his arch enemies? Well, besides flogging your back raw. Though I suppose that would be enough for me – but then again, you aren't me." He patted James on the arm. "But don't fret. Not everyone can be me, savvy?"

James regarded Sparrow warily, wondering how much to reveal. He needed the _Black Pearl_ to pursue the _Sagitta_ – it was the only chance he had to catch up to Brodie, the only chance he had to put a stop to Brodie's evil. But if there were anyone on the earth who rivalled Brodie on James's list of untrustworthy villains, it would be Jack Sparrow. He knew Sparrow wouldn't give a damn for Brodie's treachery – as a pirate, Sparrow was an outlaw to all nations, and owed his allegiance to no flag. Perhaps the sad tale of Niamh would appeal to some vestigial shred of chivalry that might lurk in the pirate's heart, but he did not deem it wise to count on that.

Before he could decide how to answer, Sparrow suddenly clasped his chest in faux mortification. "Oh, what _am_ I thinking? If you have anything to tell me, you must tell the whole crew! You see, on a pirate vessel, all men are equal, and all men are free, savvy? That means that we don't go unless the crew agrees we go. So you see, whatever case you have to make against this Brodie, you'll have to make it to the crew of the _Pearl_. So why don't you get out of those bloody rags – " he gestured to James's blood-soaked breeches – "and meet me on the quarterdeck? Then we'll see whether you can convince a band of pirates to go pirating in the name of a man who tried to have them all hanged at the Port Royal gallows." Sparrow grinned, waving off his last dire statement as though a mere trifle. "Oh, don't worry about that, though. Pirates tend not to hold grudges. Well, unless we do." And with that, he was gone, bounding through the hatch and up the ladder, and James was left holding a pair of breeches and wondering whether he had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

* * *

James emerged onto the deck of the _Pearl_ to note that the entire ship's company had gathered about for the show, and his apprehension grew steadily. Sparrow stood, leaning against the mizzen mast, and the assorted other scurvy sea dogs huddled around, glaring at him suspiciously. James recognized Gibbs, standing impassively near the front of the crowd, and the two dim-eyed simpletons, Rimple and Spaghetti or whatever their names were, who now reminded him uncannily of Simple Pete.

"Ah, now here's the man of the hour," Sparrow cried, speaking to the assembled company of the _Pearl_. "Some of you may remember Commodore James Norrington, affectionately known as the Scourge of Piracy!" A general resentful grumbling emitted from the crowd, and James tensed up, knowing he never should have trusted Sparrow. He was being set up into a trap, but there was precious little he could do about it now.

"But let us not dwell on past differences, friends! For our friend Norrington is now an ex-commodore, having left His Majesty's navy, and he now comes to us with a request!" The mutterings of the crowd changed in tenor from sullen resentment to a slightly curious and somewhat less-sullen resentment.

"In fact, the ex-commodore has asked me – has asked us! – to continue our pursuit of that lovely merchant brig, which did so callously toss him overboard like so much flotsam," Sparrow intoned. "According to my old friend, the merchant brig's captain is a scabrous villain of the most evil intent! Therefore, it is only right and just that we should pursue this blackguard, plunder his ship, seize his booty, and feed him to the sharks, savvy?"

The ship's company, upon hearing the words 'plunder' and 'booty,' changed their tune entirely, and now cheered lustily at the prospect of piracy, leaving James to wonder with disgust at what strange bedfellows he'd made.

"It sounds as though your crew agrees," James said, hoping to be done with the business as soon as possible before he changed his mind. "The _Sagitta_ has a considerable head start, so we should make haste – "

"Ah ah," Sparrow held up a chiding finger. "Not so fast, my dear commodore." James felt his hackles raise as the pirates began to grin amongst themselves. So now Sparrow had decided to spring his trap. James was furious at himself for ever having, for even a moment, trusted a pirate.

"It's only that there is the matter of one very small, minor technicality," Sparrow said cagily, as the pirates began to gather slowly around James. "You see, to sail aboard a pirate ship, a man must agree to the Code."

"The Pirate's Code!" Spaghetti chimed in unnecessarily, before being elbowed sharply in the ribs by Rimple.

"Precisely," Sparrow nodded. "The Pirate's Code ensures that we all hang together, lest we hang separately, or something like that. If any man aboard a pirate ship has not agreed to be bound by the Code… well, you can see as how that might make a few souls aboard nervous. Savvy?"

James scowled in impotent fury as the trap sprung closed around him. He should have known that Sparrow would do nothing without first extracting a price.

"You want me to swear to your forsaken pirate oath?" James spat. "Be damned to you, Sparrow! I would die first."

"Well, that could be arranged," Sparrow said ruefully. "But just between you and me, I'd prefer it not come to that. We could make a great team, you and I. A seventy-thirty split of all the booty, and I'll ever let you wear your navy coat for old time's sake. I'm sure we could scrounge one up somewhere. What say you? It would be grand fun!"

James stared wildly at Sparrow, who stood there as jauntily as ever. The man was serious. "Absolutely not. Never."

Jack sighed dramatically, tsking at James as a parent might an errant child. "You're not really leaving me a whole lot of options here, mate. Your other choice is to walk the plank. Oh, by the by, you really ought to ask Lizzie about that. No fun, I tell you."

"You idiot!" James exploded. "You play games while Brodie gets further and further away with each wasted breath! He is an evil villain – don't you want to stop him?" Predictably, that appeal garnered not even a murmur of response – but then again, appealing to a pirate's honour had always been a waste of time. How else to convince them? James knew he needed to think of something before Sparrow tired of the charade and allowed his bestial crew to have their fun.

"Very well, if honour cannot persuade you, then perhaps you would be interested in rescuing a damsel in distress," James offered, hating to bring Niamh into the picture, but failing to see any alternative. It wasn't as though Brodie's ship actually carried valuable plunder – he doubted the pirates would be interested in the Scot's curio collection, and wherever Brodie kept his other treasures, they were in some distant cache, not aboard the _Sagitta_.

Sparrow's eyebrows shot up. "A damsel, you say? Tell me more."

James scowled deeply. He began to believe he'd been scowling continuously ever since he'd been pulled aboard the _Black Pearl_. "Oh, don't go getting any ideas, Sparrow."

"Ahhh," Sparrow flashed a lewd grin and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Already staked your claim, have you? You _are_ a sly dog! Does Lizzie know?"

"No!" James blurted. "It is not like that at all – oh, why do I bother?"

Sparrow shrugged. "Well, if she isn't your damsel, and you won't let me have a go, then I'm afraid you're not making a very compelling argument, my dear commodore. So if you won't agree to go on the account, well…" He nodded, and the Rimple and Spaghetti goons trundled towards James, the big ugly one carrying a menacing-looking cudgel.

So he'd been rescued from imminent drowning only to be thrown right back into the ocean. It was, James reflected ruefully, a fittingly ironic end, given how clearly his entire life had been one long cosmic joke. God must have a cruel sense of humour. Somehow, the worst part was that he would never find out to what mysterious rendezvous Brodie was sailing for on a bearing for South America. What was there? More conspirators? More cursed 'artefacts' for his ghoulish collection? And what did he plan to do to Niamh? A memory of that last terrible night, during the fight in Brodie's cabin, flashed through his head – Brodie telling Niamh that he had become complacent with her, and would be rectifying that error as soon as –

Everything came together at once. "Wait!" he bellowed, and his tenor of command, instinctive after years of commanding warships, stilled even the pirates. He turned towards Sparrow, and knew he had the key to everything, at last.

"What if I offered you treasure – the greatest hoard of treasure you've ever seen? It's all yours, if you help me stop Brodie."

Sparrow gave a James a shrewdly appraising gaze, and waved off the two pirates. "Treasure, you say?" he said, his interest clearly piqued. "I'm listening."

"If you follow Brodie, you'll find the treasure. That's where he's headed," James said urgently. "Brodie is a collector. He has amassed a vast quantity of rare and valuable artefacts over many years, each more precious and unique than the last. It is what drives him." Well, that, and a particularly radical brand of Scottish patriotism, but James decided to stick solely with the details that would appeal to a band of pirates. "He is going to some place called Santa Maria – I don't know where it is, but we sailed from Bridgetown on a south-south-west heading, towards Trinidad. That must be where he hoards his treasure. If you follow him, you will find it – and it can all be yours."

"Santa Maria?" Spaghetti echoed. "You mean Isla Santa Maria de la Asunción, constructed in the 1540s on an island just off the coast of Venezuela as a gathering place for Jesuit missionaries before they ventured into the mainland? It was abandoned a century ago when an earthquake caused half of the mission to drop into the sea, and the other half to be fully submerged during a high tide."

James stared incredulously at the simple-looking pirate with the grotesquely rotating wooden eye, and the rest of the crew turned to look at him, before the big ugly one at his side elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"Shut up," Rimple said. Spaghetti shrugged diffidently.

"Well, I'm just saying," he said, miffed.

"That has to be it," James said. "Of course – an island abandoned by the Spanish, where no one would think to look – that's where you'll find Brodie's treasure!"

"And, you're just offering to let us have all this treasure, with no strings attached," Sparrow said, his voice thick with suspicion. "You don't want even a little bit of it for yourself?"

"I do not want anything of Brodie's," James said emphatically. "But there is one thing that I believe I will find at the island, and that alone I will lay claim to. The rest is yours, to divide as you see fit."

"I suppose your Captain Brodie found the Holy Grail?" Jack said wryly.

"Nothing quite so dramatic, no," James said. He was acting on a hunch, but it fit – everything was falling into place. "A seal skin."

"A… seal skin?" Sparrow goggled at James as if he'd grown a third eye. "This Brodie hoards valuable and precious treasure from a lifetime of plundering, and you want… a seal skin? Is there something I'm missing?"

"It belongs to a selkie," he said. "The damsel you refused to rescue," he added sardonically.

Sparrow shook his head slowly and let out a long, low whistle. "I hate to break it to you, mate, but if this Brodie of yours has claimed a selkie, then he destroyed her skin a long time ago. It's the only way to be sure you can keep them." At James's sharp glance, he raised his hands defensively. "Not that I'm speaking from experience! You just hear these things through the rumour mill, you know?"

James shook his head slowly. He was certain now that he was right. "No. You don't know Andrew Brodie. He collects things. Niamh's skin is his proof of what she is – without it, she is just a woman, and that holds no interest for him. He needs to keep the skin to remind himself of his conquest. If I retrieve it, I can finally free her of her curse." His mind once again recalled Brodie's threat, made to Niamh in his cabin: _Don't worry, my darling. I won't be your husband for long. I made a mistake with you. Got complacent. I will be rectifying that error as soon as we get to Santa Maria._

"But we have to make haste," James said urgently. "I believe he means to destroy it. Niamh defied him, during the mutiny – well, it's a long story, but I think Brodie now finds her more trouble than she is worth. We have to get to Isla Santa Maria before Brodie does. Take me there, and all the rest of his treasure is yours."

Sparrow stroked his beard, his expression shrewd. But James could tell he'd won over the rest of the pirates – their eyes gleamed with greed as they thought of all the valuable, priceless treasure they could divvy up.

"You know," Sparrow said lightly, "I think you've got a bit more pirate in you than you realize, my dear commodore." He grinned jauntily at James's scowl of displeasure, and, without a further word, leapt atop the poop deck and took a firm hold of the wheel.

"You heard my old navy friend!" he bellowed. "There's treasure to be had and a damsel to be rescued! Put on full sail, my hearties – we make for Isla Santa Maria, and let's hope for fair winds and following seas, and all that!" He looked down from the wheel at his crew, who had begun to cheer. "Well? What are you waiting for! Get to it, you dogs! Savvy?"

As the crew of the _Pearl_ sprang into life, James heaved a sigh of relief. He had not been thrown overboard (again), and he was headed on an intercept course for Brodie. The final confrontation was inevitable now – James could only hope that, with the speed of the _Pearl_ and the blessings of Neptune, they would make it in time.


	17. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what can I say? My deepest, sincerest apologies to those who have been waiting 18 months for this update. I can claim no good excuses: my muse just ran off to town with another story, and it has taken me a long time to get back my writing mojo for this fic, even though I am, and remain, very proud of it. I've always known how this tale was going to end, and so I hope I have done my original vision justice. This is not the last chapter, but I think the next one will be. I promise you will not have to wait another year and a half for it! Again, my sincere apologies, and for those who are still following along with James's tale, I will not keep you from it any longer :)

"Yo ho, yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me! Yo ho, yo ho…"

James had been clenching his jaw so tight for so long that he now had a throbbing stress headache behind his temples that pounded in time with every repeated refrain of the blasted pirate shanty. As the _Black Pearl_ sluiced silently through the waves, he tried to focus on the brewing confrontation to come – the fateful meeting with the _Sagitta_ and her treacherous captain that would settle things once and for all. James would put an end to Brodie's threat to England and save Niamh from a fate worse than death, or he would die trying.

That is, unless he threw himself overboard first.

"Bloody buggering hell!" he burst, turning around to glare at the rag-tag crew of pirates assembled around the foredeck. "Don't any of you know any _real_ sea shanties? 'Spanish Ladies'? 'Hearts of Oak'? Not even 'Drunken Sailor'?"

The pirates gaped dumbly, first at him, and then at each other, before one of them – the old one that always had a parrot on his shoulder – shrugged mutely.

"Nope!" the parrot squawked.

James stared at the man with the talking parrot, flabbergasted. "So that's it? Just 'yo ho, yo ho' all the bloody damned day long?"

"Yep!" squawked the parrot.

James shook his head, making a disgusted noise as he turned away from the pirates and leaned heavily over the bulwark, willing the sound of the breaking waves to drown out the pirates' discordant bellows. He'd just begun to believe that his ploy had worked, and the pounding in his temples had just begun to abate, when, like a chorus of the damned, the pirates launched back into song.

"Yo ho, yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me! Yo ho, yo ho…"

James squeezed his eyes shut and, not for the first time, prayed that the ship would make it to Santa Maria de Asunción before he lost his tenuous grip on sanity and slaughtered the entire crew. But not even their arrival at Santa Maria would be the end of his dealings with Sparrow, as he well knew. James had learned the hard way that a bargain with pirates was a bargain one could count on to be broken – and he no more trusted Sparrow or his crew now than he had when he was the commodore of Port Royal. He fully expected to be betrayed – though how, or when, he could not say. With a muttered curse, James shook his head and stared resolutely out to sea. He could not afford to waste energy worrying about the pirates now, not when Brodie and his cursed minions awaited.

Would Brodie suspect that James was coming for him? Perhaps not. The wicked Scot had surely believed that James had perished in the sea after his ordeal – either succumbing to his wounds and sinking beneath the waves, or torn apart by sharks drawn to the scent of his blood in the water. Therein lay James's sole advantage: if Brodie believed he'd gotten away with his crimes, then maybe James could catch him off guard.

It was a wild, reckless gamble – the kind of odds only Wells would find favourable – but it was the only move he had. The thought of Wells, and the other _Sagitta_ sailors left to Brodie's cruel mercies, sent a spasm of anger through James's gut. The crew of the _Sagitta_ had only risen in mutiny at his behest – and now Crosby and Jenkins lay dead, and the others, by now, perhaps wished they were, too. A swell of nausea rose as he thought of all the men who had counted on him, who had looked to him for leadership, and who now mouldered away at the bottom of the sea, a feast for the creatures of the deep.

 _They trusted you. They followed you. And then they died for you, just like the men of the_ Dauntless _. The fate of all who sailors who place their loyalty in James Norrington._

The wind whipped fiercely against his salt-chapped skin, and he shook his head, dismissing the treacherous thoughts. _Enough, fool! You're still alive. Brodie won't be counting on that. If you give up now, then you will have failed them all. Failed Niamh._

Niamh. He was her only hope – if he failed, Brodie would destroy her skin and imprison her forever.

_A fate worse than death, indeed._

The chill air sliced keenly against his face, carrying away the discordant wailing of the pirates into the salty mists astern. James squinted his eyes against the frigid assault, his practiced mariner's eyes scanning the cloudy horizon.

_I'm coming for you, Andrew Brodie. And not even the Totem of Ikenna can save you now._

He hoped, fervently, that his confidence was not in vain.

* * *

The _Sagitta_ was a ghost ship, looming silent and lifeless in the early morning mist. She bobbed gently in her anchorage, swaying in time with the lapping waves brought forth by the incoming tide. If she had lain anchor here, then Isla Santa Maria could not be far ahead.

"Ship ahoy!" A pirate bellowed from the crow's nest. "Layin' to anchor, two leagues off the starboard bow! Ship ahooooooooy!"

A low whistle of appreciation sounded behind James's ear, and he glanced behind his shoulder in irritation to behold the ever-vexing face of Jack Sparrow.

"Oh, she _is_ a mighty fine ship indeed, my dear Norrington," he cooed. "I can see why you have your eyes set on her." He shrugged diffidently. "Not as pretty as the _Pearl_ , mind you, but she'll do."

"Don't you get any ideas," James grated. "The _Sagitta_ has been through enough, suffering at the hands of that vicious tyrant. I'll not see her absconded by pirates."

"'Abscond' is such an unpleasant word." Sparrow waved his hand airily. "I prefer 're-appropriate.'"

James bit down the retort that bubbled to the tip of his tongue. Engaging in Sparrow's word games was an utter exercise in futility, not to mention a distraction from the job at hand.

"Whoever Brodie has left alive aboard the _Sagitta_ will be locked in the ship's hold," James said grimly. "He wouldn't dare risk anyone else near his collection." A chill pricked along James's spine as the _Pearl_ drew closer to the abandoned _Sagitta_. The crew's lives were forfeit, even those who hadn't thrown their lot in with James' mutiny – they all knew too much, had seen too much, for Brodie to ever permit any of them to live. Their lives were assured as long as Brodie needed a skeleton crew to man his vessel, but once the ship returned to port, the men of the _Sagitta_ were as good as dead. All the more reason to stop Brodie here and now.

Through the shifting mist, a rocky grey island smudged against the horizon. James spied the crumbling ruins of an abandoned Spanish mission, the bell tower half-collapsed, a melancholy bastion against the unbroken horizon of the wide, empty sea. It was low tide – as the _Pearl_ drew closer, James observed the waves rushing against the rocky outcropping just below the mission's stones. In just a few hours, the tide would come in and the lonely church would vanish beneath the waves.

"Take us in as close as you can," he said. "Lay anchor alongside the _Sagitta_. We don't have much time."

"My, my," Sparrow chided. " _Someone_ seems to have forgotten who is the captain of this vessel. Which, to be clear, is me. It simply won't do for you to give me orders on my own ship." He tsked haughtily at James, who ground his teeth in impotent fury.

"Very well." James bit out. "Captain Sparrow, would you please take your ship in and lay anchor near the _Sagitta_ , so that we have a chance to stop Brodie before he burns Niamh's seal-skin and makes off with the rest of your promised treasure?"

The mention of treasure perked Sparrow out of his fit of feigned pique. "Well, when you put it that way…"

A roughly-cleared throat alerted them to the presence of Gibbs, who had come up to stand at Sparrow's shoulder. "Beggin' your pardon, gentlemen, but if you mean to make for the island, you'd best take the boat out now. The tide's low, but it'll be comin' in soon."

James nodded briskly. "A small complement of men should do. Sparrow, pick your best fighters – Brodie won't let his treasure go without a fight." He left unspoken the possibility of Brodie's loyalists – and Kurtz.

"It's been too long since I've swashed my buckle," Sparrow said wistfully. "So many prizes just give up their booty before you so much as fire a cannon at them. Pitiful, I say. Where's the spirit? The derring-do?"

James followed Sparrow aft to the boat, where a half-dozen rough-and-tumble looking pirates awaited, cutlasses in hand. James checked that his own blade was ready – well, it was not _his_ blade, but as his blade was currently rusting at the bottom of the ocean, this hand-me-down would have to do. He swung himself nimbly into the boat, wincing as the wounds on his back throbbed in protest at the movement.

"Don't worry," he said, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Andrew Brodie will provide more than enough derring-do for a lifetime."

Sparrow raised his eyebrows and waggled them bemusedly at James. "Oh, now that _does_ pique my interest. I haven't had any good derring-do in my life since you went and got yourself marooned in a hurricane."

The sound of the boat hitting the waves smothered James's weary sigh, and he shook his head, refusing to look at that damnable pirate (or any of those damnable pirates, for that matter) as he picked up an oar alongside the rest of the crew and began to row towards shore. The deserted mission loomed larger with every stroke, and James knew that somewhere in the depths, Brodie was busy gathering up all of the ill-gotten plunder he'd amassed over a lifetime of deceit, cunning, and violence – including a seal-skin, stolen from its rightful owner by force while she wept over the still-warm corpse of her murdered husband.

The thought spurred him to a frenzy of action, muscles straining as he worked his oar, struggling against the rip current as the pirate crew brought the boat in to shore. The boat crunched against the rocks as the last wave washed it ashore, and James leapt out of the side to drag it up the rocky beach with the pirate crew. He cast his eyes up at the ruined mission. A statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms raised heavenward in benediction, lay derelict and weatherworn against the decaying stone steps.

"We've got about two hours until the tide comes in, by my reckoning," Gibbs said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a meaty fist.

"Then we'd best get to it," James said, drawing his cutlass. "The treasure will be somewhere inside the mission. There must be some kind of grotto, somewhere safe from the rising tide – Brodie wouldn't risk his collection being tarnished by the sea."

He made his way up the stairs to the once-grand doors of the mission, uncaring if the pirates were following or not. He was so close now – close enough to end this, at last. One way or another, the play would see out its final act tonight.

He was aware of his echoing footsteps as he entered the vestibule of the mission, his boots disturbing the thick layer of sand and rubble that littered the once-fine mosaic floor. He spied a flurry of scuffed marks in the otherwise-pristine grime - Brodie, no doubt. And some of his minions, too, by the looks of the prints – there were too many disturbances for one man to have made alone.

"Not bad, as far as dusty old churches go, but I've seen better." Sparrow's voice, light and chipper as always, reverberated through the empty chamber, and James spun around to fix him with a displeased glare.

"Quiet, you fool!" he hissed. "Brodie doesn't yet know we're here, and I'd prefer to keep it that was as long as possible!"

"Oh, so sorry, Your Commodorialness," Sparrow said in an exaggerated _sotto voce_.

James shook his head in disgust, and set about following the smudges in the floor – they led into the chapel and down the central aisle, where they disappeared behind the simple stone altar. James spied a small door that most likely led to the sacristy. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword – somewhere behind the sacristy led to Brodie's treasure chamber, and Brodie would be there. Perhaps Brodie was already there. A sense of urgency spurred James to hasten his steps – if Brodie was already perusing his treasure, perhaps he'd already found the seal skin –

The sound of voices echoing from the sacristy brought him up short.

" – told you, I heard something, I did!" James's lip curled in disdain. Hinks.

"It's just the sea, you bloody gibbering idiot! I swear on my father's grave, you're worse than useless."

James's blood ran cold in his veins at the sound of the familiar, hated Scottish burr.

"'Twasn't the sea," Hinks said stubbornly. "I heard voices, I know I did!"

"Then why are you telling me about it, you whingeing whelp? Go!"

"But – what if it's the navy, or pirates? I can't fight off no navy men, or no pirates neither!"

"Oh, for the love of all that's holy!" Brodie roared. "Kurtz! Go with that mewling coward, and if it turns out he's pissed his trews because a seagull gave a squawking, give him a good thrashing! We're burning too much daylight as it is without you jumping over every godforsaken bump in the dark!"

James's heart pounded against his ribs as a pair of footsteps – one nervous and clattering, the other heavy and plodding – echoed towards the open door.

"Stand fast," he said, turning back to the pirates. "We're about to have company."

"Oh, good!" Sparrow said lightly. "I was beginning to wonder when this would get interesting."

James gripped his blade with renewed fervour, but his thoughts raced to Brodie, who was no doubt making his way deeper into the mission with every second. While he relished the thought of running his blade through Hinks's filthy rat-like face, he knew that the longer he dallied with Hinks and Kurtz in the chapel, the closer Brodie got to his treasure – to Niamh's seal-skin. The beginnings of a wild, mad plan came to him in a rush, and he smiled grimly.

Hinks skittered out into the chapel, failing to notice James, who had ensconced himself into an alcove behind the altar. He froze as he looked into the faces of half a dozen grinning, brutish pirates.

"'Ello there," greeted one rather ugly pirate, who flashed a three-toothed grin at Hinks's rapidly-paling face. "I heard tell there's plenty o' booty here fer us."

"What my esteemed colleague really means to say is that your treasure now belongs to us," Sparrow said smoothly. "Come now, man – six against one. Those are poor odds, especially for a bloke who seems to be in so thoroughly over his head."

Hinks stammered uneasily, craning his head over his shoulder towards the door of the sacristy.

"Well you heard wrong!" he said defiantly, his eyes repeatedly glancing behind him, no doubt waiting for Kurtz's reinforcement. "Ain't nothing here! Nope! So go on now! Be on your way, ye scalawags!"

"Now, I don't know about you gents, but that's about as bald-faced as any lie I've ever heard." Sparrow stroked his beaded beard in mock contemplation.

"Look – I don't want no trouble," Hinks said urgently, holding up his hands in supplication. "Just let me go – you can go take whatever you want. Just let me past you, nice and easy like – and I won't say nothing to no one, I swears it."

"Hmm. What say you, pirates?" Sparrow called out to his crew. "Do you believe him?"

A chorus of "nays" echoed through the chapel.

"Me neither." Sparrow shrugged diffidently. He drew his own cutlass from its scabbard. "At 'im, boys!"

"No!" Hinks yelped. "I didn't sign up for none of this! Brodie told me I wouldn't have to fight no one!" He unbuckled his own sword and threw it to the ground with shaking hands. "I surrender! Just don't kill me!"

A looming shadow was Hinks's only warning, and he looked over his shoulder just in time to watch Kurtz's hand grasp him around the neck. With effortless ease, Kurtz lifted Hinks into the air, the smaller man struggling and thrashing in the golem's iron grip, his hands scrabbling against Kurtz's vise-like fist. With a careless toss of his wrist, Kurtz shook Hinks like a ragdoll. The smaller man's neck snapped wetly, and Kurtz flung Hinks's lifeless body into the midst of the pirates.

The pirates stared at the golem, eyes wide. Even Sparrow seemed spooked out of his usual levity. Kurtz, face expressionless as ever, began to slowly advance on the pirates, drawing his blade as lazily from its scabbard as a drunkard drew his flask.

"Oh, did I forget to mention the golem?" James said, a vicious glee suffusing him as he saw the pirates gathering, blades raised, against the advancing mountain that was Kurtz. "Now you know how it feels to be the bait, you bloody whoresons." As he ducked into the sacristy, he could have sworn he saw Sparrow giving him a knowing wink. The cheeky bastard.

The ruined church was in perilous condition; more than once James stumbled as his feet caught against a jagged outcropping of rubble, torn asunder from its foundations by the earthquake that had evicted the Spaniards from the island. Still he ran on, heedless of caution, racing against time and tide, praying he was not too late.

The trail abruptly ended in a monk's cloistered cell, and for a brief moment, James was gripped by panic – how had he managed to lose Brodie in the claustrophobic confines of the mission? Then he spied the trap-door in the corner, still creaking gently on its rusted hinges, and a wave of relief burst over him. There – the monks must have had a secret chamber, perhaps leading to a reliquary, somewhere private known only to the Spanish priests. What better place for a man like Brodie to hide his treasures? Taking a deep breath, James eased himself into the passage, his feet dropping hard against the stone floor. Crouching low, he made his way swiftly and silently through the tunnel, towards the dim light at the far end. A faintly persistent sound of rushing water grew louder as he approached the grotto.

James emerged at last from the narrow passage and his heart seized in dread. Brodie stood, his back to James, the detestably familiar burgundy greatcoat fanning out from his narrow shoulders. Brodie's considerable curio collection could not have prepared James for the sight that greeted him in the Spanish grotto – an abundance of artefacts and relics were heaped high upon each other in pile after pile, a kaleidoscope of glittering gold and gems intermingled with every manner of unique and exotic plunder from every corner of the earth. A pool of water bubbled and foamed at the base of the secret tunnel – the water likely rose during high tide, filling the tunnel, but leaving the highest reaches of the reliquary untouched. A reliquary that was inaccessible at all but low tide, yet preserved from the rising waters – a perfect place to keep priceless treasures.

Brodie stood facing what appeared to be another altar, but in place of the chalice and host of the Spanish monks sat a weatherworn chest. The lid was open, and Brodie was rifling madly through the contents, muttering a sequence of invective in a brogue too thick for James to discern. With an exclamation of triumph, he raised his hands, and lifted from the chest what appeared to be a smallish, muddy-grey blanket. James's heart plunged into his stomach. _The seal-skin._

"Need fire," Brodie muttered to himself. "Should have burned it ages ago. Ungrateful bitch! But without it… just another whore. I've no use for a whore. But a selkie! Bah!" He spat. "Should've known she'd be more trouble than she was worth! No use keeping her now, not if the skin's gone. No purpose to it."

James could hear no more. A righteous rage bubbled up from the pit of his belly and set him afire, his hands trembling with months of pent-up fury, at last being offered an outlet for release.

"Put it down, Brodie." He drew his sword, his heart hammering in wild anticipation.

Brodie paused, his shoulders stiffening beneath the greatcoat. Slowly lowering the seal-skin back into the chest, he turned around, face twisted into a mask of malevolent loathing. The smooth stone at his neck gleamed with an unnatural luminance.

"You," Brodie clipped. "You should be dead, you English dog. I had Kurtz flog you and throw you to the sharks. No man could survive long in those waters."

"You should have finished the job when you had the chance," James said coldly, tightening his grip on his blade. "Fate has a troublesome way of confounding our plans."

Brodie's lips twisted into a cold, mirthless smile. "It's true, I underestimated you. I thought you were little more than a drunken cunt-hound, but you've been quite the thorn in my side, haven't you?" He drew his own blade with a flourish, his eyes burning with hatred. "How did you manage to get past Kurtz?" He shook his head angrily. "It doesn't matter. You'll be dead soon enough. It's for the best, really – now I shall have the pleasure of running you through myself."

"You can certainly try." James, his blood on fire, wasted no more time; with a snarl, he barrelled forward, sword slashing furiously at Brodie. Brodie parried his strike effortlessly, and, with a strength belied by his nimble frame, swung his sword in a vicious riposte that nearly cleaved James in two. He was able to leverage his sword just in time to parry Brodie's blade, but the force of the blow sent a numbing tingle through his arms. With unnatural swiftness, Brodie brought his blade to bear again, slashing out with a wild fury, and James only just stumbled back and away from the killing blow. He had always accounted himself a talented swordsman, but Brodie fought with a skill and ferocity of the like James had never seen.

Parrying another savage blow, James's eyes fixed on the totem, the smooth, polished stone gleaming menacingly at Brodie's neck. The totem – that was the key. It fed on Brodie's already cruel nature, fuelling his violence with otherworldly strength. While he wore it, he was condemned to quench the totem's thirst for blood, committing atrocity upon atrocity until the totem had taken its fill and moved on – and until then, he would be extraordinarily dangerous.

"I see you eyeing my prize, Norrington," Brodie crowed, cutting in low with a savage thrust. The blade caught James across the top of his thigh, opening a shallow cut that burned like a river of fire. James swore viciously, blinking sweat from his eyes as he stalwartly attempted to mute the pain. "The totem is _mine_. I will cut you down, and when I lead my invasion fleet to England's shores, there will be none who can stand against me." He grinned savagely as his blade came down again, this time scoring a wound against James's sword arm.

"I will be certain to inform my whore wife of your fate. I shall take particular delight in her piteous weeping as I advise her of how feebly you resisted before I split you from stem to stern. Then I believe I shall punish her for her faithlessness, and I will be very thorough. No need to rush, is there? England will still be there when I am finished with her, a fat, indolent plum ripe for the picking."

With a roar of defiance, James lashed out with his foot, catching Brodie by surprise as his boot landed flush against the Scot's knee. With a cry of wounded rage, Brodie stumbled against the altar, his footing slipping against the crumbled stones as the water from the rising tide began to swirl about their feet.

"You've overlooked a rather important detail, Captain Brodie," James said. Brodie lashed out with his blade, but his balance was askew, and the strike did not carry the force that his other blows had done. James parried easily, and Brodie raised his blade in response, moving to counter the killing blow that he expected.

Instead, James thrust his sword just under Brodie's arm, piercing the burgundy greatcoat and pinning it against against the altar. Brodie's sword-arm, caught in the tangle of fabric held fast by James's blade, struggled in vain to readjust his blade, but James was too fast.

"The totem wants to betray its bearer," he said. "Had you forgotten? Or perhaps you were arrogant enough to imagine that you could master it where no other man could. No matter."

Reaching in with a triumphant fist, he grasped the Totem of Ikenna and ripped it free from Brodie's neck.

"No! It belongs to me!" Brodie howled in impotent rage, his eyes black pits of malevolence – and, for the first time, fear. With a snarl, James lashed out his foot and caught Brodie on the jaw, a deafening crack reverberating throughout the reliquary as James's boot connected squarely against the bone.

"That was for the crew of the _Sagitta_ ," James grated, his blood boiling, a thunderous drumbeat pounding in his ears. Jerking his sword free from the altar, he thrust it deep into Brodie's gut, provoking a howl of pain that trailed into a weak gurgle as a thick pool of dark-red blood seeped into the foaming water.

"That was for your ill-begotten treason," James spat. Brodie glared up at him defiantly, even as the life faded from his darkened eyes.

"'Tis no treason to support my rightful king," Brodie gasped, his lips curling in hatred. "Be damned to you, Englishman! Be damned to your whole rotten nation, a wretched land of villains and wastrels! Be damned to you all!"

Gritting his teeth, James pulled his blade from Brodie's belly. A thrill of raw, primal hatred, almost erotic in its intensity, surged through James as he positioned the tip of his blade against Brodie's throat.

"And this," he said, pressing the blade slowly forward, piercing Brodie's throat with a languorous ease, "is for Niamh. Rot in hell, you murderous bastard." He pushed the sword deeper and deeper, watching in grim fascination as Brodie's lifeblood poured from the wound, staining his fine frock shirt scarlet red.

With a jerk, James pulled his blade free, and Brodie's half-severed head flopped against his chest like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His heart pounded in his chest, and his blood roared in triumph – against all odds, he had done it. He had stopped Brodie and ended his evil. With a bitter grin, he kicked Brodie's body to the side, sending it tumbling into the rapidly rushing water that now rose nearly three inches at his feet.

The water – the tide! It was on the rise – he could not tarry. With a frantic urgency, he pulled open the lid of the treasure chest that sat atop the altar. A hodgepodge of oddities greeted his eyes: an ancient, filthy chalice, a bas relief carving that looked to be crafted from bone, a small, clay doll in the form of a muscular, glowering man, and – there. It seemed as though a grey, nondescript cloak, but James knew better.

With shaking hands, he lifted the skin from the chest. It was warm to the touch, almost hot, as though it was itself alive. He held Niamh's freedom in his hands, and the thought filled him with a heady satisfaction.

 _She will be grateful_ , a voice whispered, brushing against his ear. He smiled. So she would – she had thought herself a prisoner, a captive for life, but now, thanks to he, James, she would be set free. He had served justice. Just as he had in the old days.

Wrapping the skin into a bundle, his eyes glanced again upon the clay figure. A shuddering thought slammed into place, and at once, he lifted the figure, examining it with a wary eye. A memory returned to him, floating through the currents of his mind.

_Do you like my golem, Norrington? Dumb, unthinking, and obedient to the letter. And the best part – he can't be killed! He remains as long as I desire it – and why should I ever wish him to leave?_

A golem, clay made flesh, bound to the will of its master. Bound in the form of the little clay man, who remained as long as Brodie desired. With a grimace, James lifted his blade and impaled the clay figure. A keening wail split the air, and James flinched against the assault, but then the clay man crumbled into dust, and the cry ceased as abruptly as it had begun. With a bark of triumphant laughter, James watched as the dust settled against the contents of the chest.

 _It was an evil, mindless creature. You were right to destroy it._ The voice tickled gently against his mind, and he nodded in firm agreement. This was how it should be: James Norrington, the defender of the Caribbean, protecting the innocent, punishing the guilty. Men like Brodie and monsters like Kurtz – they were the wolves of the sea, preying on the helpless. Just like pirates.

 _The pirates – murderers and thieves, the lot of them. They would kill you for the coin in your pocket and think nothing of it. They will betray you, as they did in the past._ A dark undertow of hatred rippled through him, and James turned his eyes warily to the tunnel entrance. He had to make his way out of the reliquary, now, before the passage flooded, but now that Kurtz was gone, there was nothing to stand in the pirates' way.

 _They will betray you! You left them for the golem. They will want their revenge. They will murder you and steal your ship. You know it to be true!_ The thoughts tumbled over each other, one after the other, and he saw the hated pirates in his mind's eye – Gibbs, the traitor, tossing his shoulders in a callous shrug as the two idiots, Rimpel and Spaghetti, laughed, while Sparrow gaily ran him through with a blade. Sparrow, the cause of his ruination and his disgrace, who would now be the death of him. A keen blade of white-hot hatred knifed through his soul, and he clenched his hands into balled-up fists.

A warm, solid weight pressed against his closed palm, and, blinking in surprise, he opened his hand to reveal a smooth, polished stone, encased in a finely-wrought golden broach. The Totem of Ikenna. Yes – he'd taken it from Brodie, and it was still in his hand. He'd forgotten already.

A sense of apprehension prickled along his spine, and he moved his hand to the chest, to deposit the totem inside. The totem was trouble – he remembered Tia Dalma's tragic tale. Nothing good could come of such ill intent. And yet, as his hand hovered over the open chest, he could not seem to force his fingers to unfurl, to release the stone and let it fall away amidst the rest of the treasure.

Brodie had been an evil and treacherous man, even before he'd acquired the totem. The original victims of the totem, the plantation owner's family, had been callous and cruel, treating their slaves worse than beasts. They had already been corrupt and depraved – the totem had just amplified their vices, turned them towards madness and self-destruction.

But what if the totem came to a person who did not bear evil intent in his heart? What if the totem merely magnified a man's inherent nature – turning wicked men into monsters, and good men into paragons of ceaseless virtue?

A surge of warmth and pride suffused James. He saw himself restored to glory, standing on the quarterdeck of a mighty man o'war, his uniform crisp and clean and his cocked hat firmly atop his head. Commodore James Norrington, the protector of the Caribbean, the scourge of pirates and traitors across all the West Indies! He would own the honour and respect of his fellows, and the blushing and tender regard of all the finest ladies – especially Elizabeth Swann.

 _Elizabeth. She betrayed you, too._ His hand withdrew from the chest, his fingers closing tight around the totem. The thought of Elizabeth, her beautiful face gazing at him with a faraway, distracted look in her eyes – he'd thought her merely ill that fateful day atop the ramparts, merely taken with the vapours, but in truth she'd been pining away for that bastard son of a pirate all along. He saw her pressed up against Jack Sparrow, her clothes clinging wetly to her luscious feminine curves, Sparrow's eyes leering as he no doubt imagined all the vulgar indignities to which he would subject the governor's daughter.

_For love of her, you were ruined, disgraced, cast aside. For her deceit and her lies, you suffered at the hands of the most iniquitous band of pirates that pollute the western seas. Her false promise cost the lives of many good men under your command – dead because you could deny her nothing!_

James's lips twisted into a feral snarl of anger, and his hands moved almost of their own volition to slip the Totem of Ikenna over his head. It fell against his chest, warm and weighty, as if it had always been there and he'd just taken it off for a moment. It felt right.

A whistle cut through James's darkening spiral of thoughts.

"So, it's true," Sparrow's voice intoned almost reverently. "For a while there, I was convinced that this treasure hoard of your dearly departed former captain was as genuine as a virgin on Tortuga. I didn't put it past you to draw us here on false pretences – you're much more piratical than you realize, my dear commodore. A stroke of genius using us to distract the golem, by the way. No hard feelings. I couldn't have done it better myself. Besides, you did dispatch it, so I can't really hold a grudge as such, can I?"

The hated voice slithered into James's ear, crawling along his spine like a mess of spiders.

_There he is, the architect of your ruination. How many lives has he destroyed? How many widows weep, how many orphans cry, because this savage beast thinks of nothing but sating his own desires? He deserved the rope – but you took mercy on him, like a fool. You must do now what you failed to do in Port Royal._

"Sparrow." His voice was ice. "Come to claim your riches?"

Sparrow's eyebrows creased in a puzzled frown. "Well… yes, actually? Since you did, after all, promise my crew our share of the booty? And I see you found your seal-skin, so…" He clapped his hands together and smiled cheerfully. "A bargain's a bargain, isn't it?"

"A bargain." James spat into the rushing water that now covered his boots. "Did you truly believe I would ever bargain with pirates? Especially the pirate who destroyed my life?" He narrowed his eyes, his hand drifting down to his sheathed blade. Sparrow frowned in earnest now.

"Er… Commodore, I really thought we'd settled things between us. Bygones, and all that."

"Had we? Well, let's go over it again, shall we?" A vicious, consuming hatred surged through James's blood as his fingers caressed the hilt of his sword. "I had everything until you turned up in Port Royal like a bad case of the pox – respect, command, a fine career, a fine woman. I should have seen you hang at the gallows, twisting in the breeze until your tongue lolled from your wretched mouth. But no – I let you _go!_ I took _mercy_ on a pirate because Elizabeth Swann begged me, and it cost me _everything_! She humiliated me, made a fool of me, and yet still I served at her beck and call, her loyal dog to the bitter end! Tell me, Sparrow, did you ever thank her for what she did for you that day? Did she spread her whore legs for you, as she does for every other man in the West Indies?" His fingers closed around the hilt and he drew the sword from its sheath with a sinister shriek of metal against metal.

Sparrow narrowed his eyes. "I know you've never been particularly fond of pirates, Commodore, but this is a bit much, even for you." His eyes drifted to the totem that nestled against James's neck. "What's that, pray? I thought the only thing you wanted from your captain's collection was the seal skin?"

"It's none of your goddamned business what it is," James gritted, a hand closing instinctively over the totem. "Tell me: when were you planning to betray me? Now that I've dispatched Brodie for you? Or later, once you'd lulled me into a false sense of security?" With a lunge, he slashed his sword at Sparrow, who dodged nimbly out of the way. Cursing, James stumbled forward, his feet unsteady amidst the rushing current of the rising water.

"It doesn't seem to me like I'm the one doing the betraying, savvy?" Sparrow said, drawing his own sword and parrying James's wild counter-strike. "And take it from a man who has suffered from his own share of curses - you're not yourself, matey."

"What would you know of me?" James roared, his blade crashing against Sparrow's with a deafening clang. "You know nothing!"

His blade again clashed violently against Sparrow's, but rather than pushing back, Sparrow slipped to the side, allowing James's momentum to carry him forward. He pitched into the rising tide with a bellow of rage, spluttering and cursing as the saltwater gritted into his eyes and stung the still-raw wounds of his back.

"I know this," Sparrow said, his foot lashing out and kicking the sword away from James's grip. "I know this is not the James Norrington I've known, even at his most insufferable."

With a roar of defiance, James threw himself wildly at the pirate, colliding with Sparrow and dragging him down into the rushing water.

"You mean to kill me?" James snarled, his hands finding a grip around Sparrow's neck and closing tight. "You'll have to try harder than that, pirate filth."

"No," Sparrow choked out. Suddenly, James realized the magnitude of his error as a glint of silver flashed in the corner of his eye, and he felt the cold steel of Sparrow's dagger pressed against his throat.

"I may not like you, Norrington, but you deserve better than this," he said, and with a jerk, he sliced the knife clean against James's neck. The thin silver cord securing the Totem of Ikenna severed asunder, the totem falling free from James's neck and into the maelstrom of the swirling waters below.

"No!" James bellowed, but even as a thick, hot rage filled him, he felt a strange cloud moving through him, as though a fog were being lifted. He looked down at himself, half-submerged in the rising waters, Sparrow's prone form beneath him, his hands around the pirate's neck. With a strange ponderousness, he blinked slowly, as if awakening from a long and discomfited slumber.

"What…"

"I knew that thing was bad news as soon as I saw it. You're not really the jewellery type, mate." Sparrow jerked his head towards the tunnel entrance. "Mind letting me up now?"

With a shake of his head, James released Sparrow's neck, and stood slowly, coming slowly back into himself. His muscles trembled as the madness subsided.

"You can't touch it, Sparrow," he said numbly. The water had risen to his ankles now, and he cast his eyes at the tunnel – it was half-flooded. They needed to escape the grotto now, before the tide trapped them in the reliquary.

"What – your cursed jewel? Oh, and a 'thank you, Jack, you've saved my life yet again' wouldn't be remiss, either."

"It's not a jewel," James said. "It's a totem. It corrupts anyone who touches it, even for a moment. Twists their hearts to evil. It's not safe, Sparrow. Promise me you won't touch it."

"I can promise you we'll die if we don't get out of this dungeon before the water rises!"

"Sparrow!"

"All right, all right! I promise! Don't you think I've had enough of dread pirate curses to last me a whole lifetime?"

James could certainly agree heartily with that sentiment. "Let's get out of here."

"Er…"

"What now?" He fixed Sparrow with an exasperated look. Sparrow nodded his head at something behind James. James turned around and saw Niamh's seal-skin floating gently.

With a flush of shame, he gathered it up. God take his soul – first he'd allowed the totem to drive him mad, and then he'd nearly forgotten the only blasted trophy of Brodie's that held any value for him. Tucking the skin under his arm, he stalked towards the tunnel, but a pricking of his conscience stilled his steps.

"Sparrow…"

"You can thank me later. Let's get out of this death trap first, shall we?"

James slogged through the hip-deep water of the tunnel, struggling against the swirling current until he poked his head through the trap-door into the monk's cell. He made his way through the labyrinthine mission in a daze, and when he and Sparrow re-emerged in the chapel, he found himself almost glad to see the pirates. Hinks's corpse lay broken and twisted against a simple stone pew; of Kurtz, there was no trace.

"Another triumphant victory for the free men of the sea!" Sparrow called out with a flourish. "The treasure is as bountiful as our good commodore has promised, and he has done us the further boon of dispatching its former owner! There is enough booty to make every man aboard the _Pearl_ rich fifty times over!"

The pirates broke out into raucous cheers, but James barely heard them. He continued to stumble forward in a daze, the shame of his weakness filling him with every step. It pained him with every fibre of his being to admit that he owed his life – and Niamh's – to Jack Sparrow's quick thinking. He would have been lost to the totem, and any hope for Niamh along with him.

"Commodore?" He heard Gibbs's voice calling for him, but he did not stop. Making his way out of the mission, he sagged heavily against the boat, releasing a long, weary sigh. At last, the adventure was over. He had failed… but yet, he could still find a way to make it up to them all. To the men of the _Sagitta_ , who languished in chains. To Niamh. Now he could set them all free.

He curled into himself, hugging the seal-skin tight to his chest. The pirates would not be able to secure their booty now until the next low tide – they would have to wait for the water to recede from the reliquary. He found he did not begrudge them their ill-gotten prize. His eyes searched out over the late afternoon horizon, and he spied a smudge in the distance, some two miles from shore. The _Sagitta,_ awaiting her fate patiently.

He did not know how much time passed until the pirates returned. He gamely joined them as they shoved the boat into the surf and began to row mechanically, his muscles moving of their own unconscious accord.

"So, I suppose your time with us is done," Sparrow said. "You know, you're always welcome aboard the _Pearl_ should you ever decide to take the Code." He shrugged. "Mind you, you'd start as a swabbie. I don't care if you were the Grand Highfalutin' Admiral of all the Royal Navy – every man starts at the bottom and works his way up, savvy?"

"I would thank you for your offer, but you already know I shall never take you up on it."

Sparrow shrugged. "Worth a try, though, wasn't it?"

Despite himself – despite everything – James smiled. "I believe I've found my home, at last."

The _Sagitta_ grew larger on the horizon, and the sight of it cheered James's heart. He did not know what the future held, but for now, this was enough.


End file.
